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Kingsley Dominic Feb 2017
ALBINOS ARE SAINTS*

His colour is that of clay,
Africa's rich harvest and heritage
He's a masquerade;
A mystery; a myth; a labyrinth and a maze
Have you ever wondered how albinos were made?

I tell you how
They didn't come from the earth
Their flesh; a baked cake from the sun,
Descent from the fires of mystery

Sun flares giving their hairs such a sparkle
A sparkle that's a dazzling dazzle,
Mankind is afraid of their smiles
They are heavens beauty and secret weapon.

Children of the sun
Whose father must protect them from the sun
Their eyes give infrared beam across the dark nights
An albino is not just beautiful,
He's heavens beauty and secret weapon.

This is how the myth goes,
An albino never dies
He simply vanishes;
Fate is theirs.
Even an albino is enthralled by another albino,
They are born in the sun and buried in the moon
Or do you know a tombstone?

Just one
With the eulogy boldly written
"And herein lies a mystery:
An albino, who defies nature and logic
He's born in the sun and buried in the moon...
No you wouldn't find one
'Cause their tombs are in the heavens
Albinos are born saints and they die same.
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound
except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember
whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve
nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky
that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in
the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays
resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.

It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her
son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland,
though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we
waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they
would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and
moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their
eyes. The wise cats never appeared.

We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever
since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or,
if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar
cat. But soon the voice grew louder.
"Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.

And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring
out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier
in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the
house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.

Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a
newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and
smacking at the smoke with a slipper.

"Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong.
"There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas."
There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his
slipper as though he were conducting.
"Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and
ran out of the house to the telephone box.
"Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires."

But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose
into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier
Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt,
Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would
say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets,
standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?"

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel
petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt
like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the
English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the
daft and happy hills *******, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I
made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."

"But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it
came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow
grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and
settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."

"Were there postmen then, too?"
"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and
mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells."
"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"
"I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them."
"I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells."
"There were church bells, too."
"Inside them?"
"No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings
over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It
seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our
fence."

"Get back to the postmen"
"They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the
doors with blue knuckles ...."
"Ours has got a black knocker...."
"And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making
ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out."
"And then the presents?"
"And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled
down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on
fishmonger's slabs.
"He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's ****, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was
gone."

"Get back to the Presents."
"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths;
zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-
shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking
tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you
wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now,
alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not
to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp,
except why."

"Go on the Useless Presents."
"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and
a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a
little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that
an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the
trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the
red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches,
cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who,
if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for
Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to
wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall.
And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited
for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And
then it was breakfast under the balloons."

"Were there Uncles like in our house?"
"There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle
and sugar ****, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird
by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and
women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles
their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all
the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in
their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling
pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying
their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then
holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the
kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to
break, like faded cups and saucers."

Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this
time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he
would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing,
no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite,
to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling
smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the
dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a
snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of
a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.

I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face
of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high,
so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled
windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after
dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch
chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie
Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some
elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port,
stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to
see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In
the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among
festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions
for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.

Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim
and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements.
"I bet people will think there's been hippos."
"What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?"
"I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him
under the ear and he'd wag his tail."
"What would you do if you saw two hippos?"

Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr.
Daniel's house.
"Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box."
"Let's write things in the snow."
"Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn."
Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?"

The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills,
and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We
returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-
rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock
birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly;
and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with ***,
because it was only once a year.

Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like
owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the
stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving
of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we
stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand
in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant
and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them?
Hark the Herald?"
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high
and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood
close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small,
dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry,
eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped
running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-
gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town.
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said.
"Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another
uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip
wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a
Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out
into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other
houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas
down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
i can't believe i came across this today,
but i am certain did...
   an experience so vague i couldn't believe,
i actually experienced dyslexia,
call it quasi call it pseduo... but it was very
much akin... from the book's narrative...
but not from the footnotes, i read the footnotes
at perfect cognitive speed, but perhaps
returning to the narrative i did experience
a slack of the + (add) of how words are
dissected and quickly put back together...
  yes, that other arithmetic with very little
breathing room, yes, that thing without
a soul... the word... or god...
    i turned custard brain, fudge...
     i felt like watching the gymnastics at
the para-olympics... and if i was going for a cheap
joke / english black humor i'd probably
laugh at that... but since this is the most
perfect ideal, i can't only make that comparison.

and so it was, i sat there doing nothing productive,
nothing... counting sheep to encourage
day-dreaming...
       so i said: 'i'll read a book', like i might do
on the whim in my grandparent's house
(one of the many reasons i decided to be "canadian" -
and establish a firm belief in bilingualism -
since if i didn't speak the tribal tongue
i wouldn't be rummaging in my grandfather's
library... and stealing books from him...
  well, exporting them to england, where he said
on my last visit: your library is bigger than
mine, isn't? well... it can fill a double-bed
   and be stacked at about 300cm up...)
    maybe the fact that being immersed in the tribe:
polish on the radio, on the television,
the fact that i can be without the internet for
weeks on end and have no quick-canvas outlet for
my earned tongue is the reason i could read
Kraszewski's* Dei Ira / bozy gniew / god's wrath...
    (there is too much subtle differences between
capital iota and little-town lambda -
   or why iota had to have the dot above it, anyway) -
so dei ira looks better... which is why i'm
not orthodox about using capital instances all the time...
   what a whirlwind...
         but prior to that i was watching
a david jacoby film - love is the devil: study for
a portrait by francis bacon...
                                         and all i could think of:
what marvel, to have a **** shoved up your ***
and speak so beautifully...
  have such a vast array of narratives...
     i can only assume that experiencing **** ***
gives you the other man's **** shoved into
your mouth that acts like a tongue and speaks
      so many truths as could be possible,
as in Freudian dream: when a woman wears a hat...
a talking ****** on her head from slurping
at the vaginal grotto of another woman...
     such a marvel though, homosexuality, esp.
the type of homosexuality that has art to express
rather than a civil partnership, civil rights...
  i mean, i could watch this stuff for days and never
yawn or need to watch protests and marches...
  just the image of what is best described
   john william waterhouse's
   painting hypnos and thanatos...
      i can't help but see it like that...
         francis plays the female role, his model the evident
dominant male... and sure, francis having his
**** punctured for what could be best described
as diarhhea either side of the equator does so...
it's as if he is eloquent enough / intelligent to allow
this to happen, for another man to speak through
him somehow... the model's phallus in francis' ****
becomes the model's tongue in francis' mouth...
    which becomes the stage for hypnos and thanatos...
in that francis' tongue becomes a phallus in
the mind of the model: and it whispers him nightmares
in his sleep... a vicious cycle indeed...
           that's the homosexuality that's highly regarded
by me, not the confetti functional type that
    exploits science and social norms and can no longer
lend itself to art, to transcending the taboo...
      with homosexuality divorced from art...
i can't see anything profound by gays from now on...
i really can't... if there is no art in this deviant
love, no art is worth being expressed by this
once glorious realm that has grovelled into the gutter...
so let's start once more: with Onan!

and everyday i awake wake with only one identifiable
fear: will i not write a single verse as of today?
it's not a case of a single day encapsulating my
fear, but that that crux day: furthered into a silence
that can't compensate the act of writing with
anything, other than sleep... i just can't seem
to smarten up concerning this very rational phobia...
    and having said that: here is the incision mark
denoting an interlude, and how: what are originally
intended to be of enso quality, cannot
   stand up to the biological tick-tock of needing
the loo...
     and do i think o'keefe's music foundation
by children is so much better than the original
done by tool concerning the song forty six & two?
yes, yes i do... just look at the kid on the bass guitar,
the fact that bass guitar is allowed to state a layer
of cake just above drums to set the rhythm
means the rhythm guitar doesn't have to solipsistic
******* and scale the everest of solo...
   it can remain in the rhythm section,
actually be worth a rhythm,
   the guitar doesn't need to overload into a solo...
the vocals belong to that domain...
   as long as the bass guitar is allowed to be heard
(unlike in metallica) - then i must be tone deaf!
revise me!
                    jazz knew the importance of every instrument,
and the need to be spontaneous, but also
the need to be anti-synchronisation,
  and therefore anti-muddle tsunami of:
all together now!
            n'ah, **** that **** (yes, the Vulgate is
coming along, i like the pooch, i don't care what things
i might say, the rude growl-bark is coming along:
so we can admire him licking his *****, and for no
other reason he's coming):
as in the birth of sexes... which the animals don't
seem to comprehend that much intently...
                 i can't like my ******* or **** one off...
but i know i can abstract a woman into
a hand and just pretend it's me doing the ****
crap with her... than myself included,
   or as i might add: never drink or *******
before the mirror... soon enough your reflection
becomes a bit odd, not because of what you do,
but because you hide so much perplexity before
you in Lucifer's daylight with which
  the moon Narcissus governs the moods...
that you start to look at your actual shadow
   with more clarity and fact...
  looking in the mirror is the reverse of looking
at your shadow under a street-lamp at night...
the mirror sort of becomes a shadow...
             the form becomes a bit (ha ha, what
an exagerration) vague... i look into
a mirror and i am but looking into shadow...
                   and i can't exactly recognise the eyes,
or make our geometric approximations
of a skull...
                      it's not even a case of a poor Yorrick
blah blah.
    or as the new governing body put it:
there are to be no mirrors contained within
the gates of Pandemonium...
        each to his own shadow, each to his own abstract...
   for the shadow will be deemed the new mirror...
   the new found glacier of, yes:
when salt water freezes, comes pure white floating
on the oceans... but must you freeze fresh water
and there's this matrix...
as in icecubes...
       dropping from a vendor machine...
and i knew i shouldn't have digressed so much,
but then again, if there was no ****** tick-tock
       rebellion, i probably wouldn't have revealed this much...
with ancient lore...
    who'd use the word Pandemonium these days,
if you're merely trying to call it: the Houses of Westminster...
well sure, accusation due: i prefer
a bunch of kids feeding me a nostalgia over a song
i heard aged 14... such is the power of the song 46 & 2
done to a... wait wait...
  i was talking about bass guitars and jazz...
(i could never get to like rap...
            i liked when the blacks deconstructed classical
music, but they did after: i'll never like,
mainly people of blackies and that general fanfare
of rap feeding tribalism) -
          the greatest aspect of jazz:
that on some recordings there's a chance to hear all
the instruments having a solo moment...
you'll hear a quintent solo:
  the piano, the drum, the saxophone, the horn,
the double-bass solo... each doing a solo...
not some erectile dysfunction of rock music from the 1980s...
i mean: each one will do a solo...
  and **** me, that's grand... and given there's no vocals
makes it all the better... but where, the ****, can i hear
jazz music being kept with such high regard as i
might find mozart pickled and even mummified
     to suddenly rise again and compose like i might hear
it on classical.fm... maybe acid jazz killed it...
   i can't seem to hear of one place where i can hear
the range of jazz music i have in my collection...
which probably mean's i'm lazy and don't fiddle about
with the radio fm and am channels... to "look" for jazz...
  i'm all applause though: jazz allowed for
deconstruction of classical music and paved the way
for the current state of polyphony in plateau...
    meaning: too much drum, too much ump-pst-ump-pst...
   jazz paved the wsay from orchestra,
   and yes, maybe because it was too impromptu
as it was necessary, that there was no jazz composer...
  there could have been no jazz script... no pre
           to what was otherwise alway and only: uno...
a once...
    sure Thelonious Monk did use an orchestra at some time...
  but if only someone decided to do a solipsism
and write out jazz like mozart wrote out
      concerto... but no... jazz descending from on high
and invoking african villages could never do to
its practitioners the deadly fate of breeding a jazz
composer...
                   it was the communal idea, the musketeer
unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno:
   you could never allow a silent dictator like
a mozart dictating to a throng of people contained
within an orchestra... which later made the once
silent dictators very very vocal... speeches in Munich
alike...
           the fact that jazz has no script,
and the fact that if someone tries to play a Miles Davis
from script... is completely an ***...
     put him on a donkey (backwards)
                     donning a sanbenito and lynch him
to the nearest traffic junction to **** louder than
a car klaxon... that will do the trick...
       they did bother to script led zeppelin though...
    maybe it was the stiff competition that did it:
jazz. airy... breezy... but what a quick moment it was...
i'm almost jealous of the beat poets experimenting
with jazz musicians... but then i'm not:
i like to think of them as parasites...
   you know... those things feeding of spontaneity...
parasites... or dare i say: plagiarising leeches...
plagiarisng what? well, not the content, the context:
feeding of jazz spontaneity... not working from
old composers like Milton or Dante...
thank god for Ezra Pound and Sylvia Plath.

seems i have a ****** for a larynx...

perhaps i just seem to mean: i am a firm believer
in bilingualism... perhaps that's based on
some sort of religiosity,
    and let me tell you: it's born with
a schismatic nature, siamese, but not like a
siamese twin, in that it really needs a surgeon...
  it's a nucleus that's inherently schismatic...
i can't blame the english nation being
so lazy in its multicultural ethos,
i quiet like it: i don't live in a ghetto...
but forgetting my native tongue just so i could
sing a national anthem with conviction?
na'ah, that's not me...
            we'll come to Kraszewski's rex piast
in a minute, and it really was a genuine
experience of placebo dyslexia,
the one on the other side: should i have written
zilch...
      i believe in something quiet Canadian...
i don't believe in isolated communities,
   or ghetto tactic... i am a firm disciple of the advent
of bilingualism: forget the *** for just one day,
your genitals won't suddenly drop off with
gangrene scabs... you don't need a doctor
to say that...
                i mean: bilingualism as a concern
for incorporated culture, and the culture you were
born in... why can't these people just care to juggle
three testicles?
                   oh, elaphantisis got in the way...
sure, two oranges and a watermelon: makes sense...
no!
      have mutual respect, you come to me sprechen
Piast i'll speak Piast to you...
   well: given that polish and polish aren't that far apart,
i'd feel inclined to utilise
           idiosyncratic lingo...
   lingua genesis...
                children are so much easier to utilise than
angels: they have yet to experience anything at all
on the Socratic basis...
            so if i talk Piast to me, you will know what
i'm talking about?
     it doesn't matter if you do... i chose to be
a library, rather than an encyclopoedia of immigrants...
    there's not need to test me on general knowledge:
the stuff i "know" already gives me membrane...
     i respect both the culture of my birth and the skin
i am sometimes told to make sure is called tattoo,
and what i see before me, and quiet frankly:
i see nothing before me... a turban here,
    a sausage & mash there, a pint of guinness there,
noodles elsewhere... all in all: globalisation
and the elements: earthquakes... torandos...
   there isn't much to see in a poly-ethnic society...
there are too many major changes taking place
in a pyramid of non-ethnic ascriptive
         non-this-and-that pawns...
  it's not even painful: just a bit disgusting to watch...
  and yes i have access to a voult of monochromatic
society:
   you know how many ethnic minorities i spotted
in a train station in Warsaw? three...
two asians and one black woman...
              i haven't experienced the cold winters in Poland:
but i knew there was a limit...
         only about three apaches in a crowd of
albinos... which doesn't translate as:
    i was somehow content, it just meant
that most signs in Warsaw are written with a bilingual
bridge of Polish... and Ukranian Cyrillic...
plenty of Ukranian Mecca-bandits, for sure,
     but that's the end of the line with what
western Europe is doing to itself...
        every time i come back from Poland
i'm smeared with a rainbow of variety,
   it's either: i want to **** all these girlies
or i want to **** them... mostly the former,
  but you get the picture of experiencing the alternative
of the western experiment: since marxist economy
was "doomed" or simply expected to fail...
the economy finally seems reasonable with safety
for the old and the pension plans...
that marxist-culturalism had to emerge... if we are not
on the same dough plan of being content with a table and
a chair: might as well say we're all prone to don
a ******* afro.
                ***** are naturally curly, no?
going back "home" is always a weird experience, i tend
to read books there... like Kraszewski (who,
even the locals **** as being an unbearable bore
and joke that Joyce is easier read)... with his dei ire...
my grandfather just dropped it into my hands
as an experiment, thinking i wouldn't read it...
    well, in terms of translation Kraszewski is a myth-broker...
no one would read him,
  meaning: i'm kind of grateful that poles
seem to sorta: not exist, when it comes to citing examples
that include modernity and the history being
formed... i could sorta believe it if i were Estonian
or Lithuanian, or from Liechtenstein...
          but we're talking about a place with a large
enough population to be a major player in some
wordly conflict... Poland isn't that small...
    but yet it appears like it appeared from
the 18th century onwards... a state partitioned...
    and what i love about remaining tactifully bilingual?
i can talk about my native in a "colonial" tongue...
hence the " " definition: self-acquired...
             that's why i became spastic-fantastic reading
Kraszewski's rex piast - nothing came in,
i lost all trace of syllable construction, i read the books
so slowly i had one page done in about 10 minutes:
prolonging my musing of world powers, thrones
and crowns on a toilet...
        *******... another interlude.

can anyone see the, dodo project? i really just see a dodo project, yes: eine dodo projekt... i'm white, i'm male: can i be allowed to express these nouns in a pronoun, or am i schizophrenic prone? it seems i c
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
of course i ******* every night,
otherwise i'd be wondering
about the next Laika in space
with some next soviet conspiracy
Sputnik hovering while i chance
abbreviate a change on hairstyling
thinking: jeez, this is a little bit too
afro frizzy for a brainstorm,
maybe i better opt for Jamaican dreads?
economics of shampoo usage,
suddenly a large bank account.
i do get the idea behind treating nouns
like albinos... bleach the *******
hang them to dry in Polaroids...
while commercial flights fly at a certain
height, and the rich buggers fly high enough
to jet-stream in the cirrus uncinus bracket...
and they lie to children,
they're talking about strange satellites...
i can't see satellites, not without Galileo's
excommunication apparatus,
satellites, as far as i am concerned
orbit the earth in a non-visible spectrum
of the vacuum... hence their orbiting outside
of the visible spectrum atmosphere of
the earth, i would not be able to see
a satellite for the love of Michaelangelo.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i hate it when a ~haiku is forced upon me, but such
is the case, and it's not a case of dittoing out
a mechanical aspect of that body that's
known as vocabulary:
thus, suddenly, as if a ****, or
a reflex the tongue commanded
the entire body -
left-wing obstructions gave way to
right-wing rebelliousness -
    the left said the tongue was no dagger,
the right said: merely a dagger -
the gyroid: or the muscles we never thought
existed! lanky tendons, etc.
    never the microscopic proof reductionism
and never the telescopic proof           ",
always somewhere in the middle:
and that's about right.
               i wrote a poem, it sounded about right
and then i get the wanked-over shoulder
calling it life-support dandruff
because of the many sprouts possible -
as ever: some come and give a voice unto
the people, and some come and give an ought
unto the people.
               a choice that's mutually inclusive
of thought and choice as a battleground
for the mechanisation of language into
sulphur gas and bayonets
and a thousand wildcards charging and screaming
lost toward the bewilderment of
   forgotten sexting.
      what a mighty affair:
the only country delving the prospect of
an atom bomb being dropped again doesn't believe
in munition economics and doesn't see
that the paranoia can be stopped when the capitalist
sober-heads enter and say: but where's the profit?
there's not profit in an atom bomb:
it ends too soon,
     you never got a Hollywood chapter yoyo
      concerning Hiroshima or Nagasaki...
you got one about Pearl Harbor...
a competent act of war... but not like our
civilians really matter: we civilians got the treatment
of being active members of the army,
while the army personnel were given civilian
Pilate status, the army was given civilian status
and the Japanese civilians were given army status...
oh forget the noodle swindler -
that handwritten hoola-hoop spinster of
carbohydrates is long gone...
          or the greatest paranoia against all other
nations comes from a nation that actually used the weapon!
       i could write a haiku version of what i lost,
but i'll still have to write something about you-tube
vloggers and how they are the newest version
of the objective propaganda machine that's in
the Islamic camp of merchants...
       prophet-merchant? give me a break:
if his word doesn't sell, then who's does?
my endorsement? less of a cosmetic light-touch surgeon
attitude, my endorsement is that of
Morphy Richards' Soup Maker...
cooking pumpkin soup...
  pumpkin... well: it's hardly an easy peel when it
comes to cooking butternut squash...
it's a disaster! a hell to endure! no wonder it's the veg
that frighten offs the ghouls and the ghost
you can't peel it, you have to Apache skin it
like getting a colonial wig: scalping your way into
the high court, albeit minus the greyish curls -
******* is a king of culinary demises
that were sought out expeditions -
you have to knife your way beneath the snail-like
shell and then there's that cobweb of mush
with intrinsic fake seeds / flies lodged in
the orange cobweb - for all that effort
i appreciate it more as a lampshade than a food
source... but then the advertised starving Africans
as anti-colonial compensation for "our"
grandfather's recollection of monochromatic cultures,
before globalisation took off.. hmm.
the soup? pumpkin, potato, onion, garlic,
nutmeg, paprika, chicken stock,
salt and pepper to taste...
tomorrow? a pumpkin risotto...
hey! seasonal abundance, Spanish strawberries
in late winter are too watery anyway...
   people forgot that certain things taste better
in season, that's namely fruits and vegetables...
   go outside your fancy, outside your whim,
you'll finally have to say: my eyes eat
at the very credibility of such things being
there without the season... but my tongue does not
taste the thing that requires a pentagonal sense
honing in toward an agreed to democracy:
it ain't there... as ever autumnal fruits make their
way toward the culinary redcarpet -
                   apples, pears....
     but the real ice brokers remain tangled in
the gnostics of dairy *****: you only see the *****
when the milk turns sour...
              and the two segregate
their cauliflower bergs and that pristine seethrough
        matrix -
then it's like watching the 1054 schism:
          aquasal herring
                               and aquadulci tench -
as painful as listening to my father speak english:
it's just ****** painful,
i write english and speak it like an Anglo
   and he speaks it like an Arab:
with me it's: left right left right left right
and his is an ancient form of actual Latin
              right left right left right left -
of the tongues that appropriated the Latin lingua
optics that weren't conquered it's the same as it was
for Seneca of Virgil, e.g. red beast / proof of all
scientific generic category principle: **** sapiens
                  upright man / bestia rufus -
and that's still orange beast - then aliq for yellow:
then liquid and runny khaki - a monetary equivalent
of money.
          but of the tongues
                      which is why i kept my mother tongue,
i can't imagine what would have been the case
had i not kept it intact... i'd be whitey boy bleached
into an anaemic Arian with those rubbery red
             lost for words rabbit crazy irises that
albinos sport when on the sociopathic treadmill:
that's a daily commute for most people.
i should have anticipated something better coming
out of a forced bad gateway message when
i tried to published and didn't save the outcry...
but it was never a reality when defined by a few
people... it always necessarily the many,
the market square, the hustle and bustle,
     then again few took to ****** to say love...
understandable: if something is called private
it's not called reality, because so many people
have so much **** to say in public that they
treat private life as a tabernacle -
reverse that and suddenly you find people
who possess a "voice for the multitude",
but not (not oddly enough) a thought -
ah the caring scream when not bound to
the horror genre of politics: it's too late!
               end here: a prior to rather than, a
desirably said to appease and conform:
by now we're all cited as having only said
an onomatopoeia of what words should sound like -
we're found hacking a door to shreds with
an axe, rather than merely curling our hands
so the knuckles can be used to knock on the door.
still, i made pumpkin soup today,
tomorrow i'll make a pumpkin risotto -
and the pumpkin is, rightfully, the halloween king
of all vegetables: i am not surprised it's the perfect
lampshade people leave outdoors -
hell of a thing to peel, a butternut squash
would have been simpler to make...
but for the first time in my life:
  i actually appreciate the colour orange...
as said: cooker orange is beyond that fluorescent
acidity of a citrus fruit:
  cooked orange is actually grand...
raw citrus orange?                and a handful
of creepy crawlies.
    funny how the spectrum necessarily made me
endorse a soup maker, rather than the next
big thing in the realm of toothpaste and mascara.
Him
She saved his name

In the dearest part of the

Places in her phone-book

As him

As the wall-paper

As the ringing tone

As the welcome message

As the shut-down message

As the reboot message

As the password

As the screen lock

As the screen saver

Because it was him.



She saved his name

In the tender-most spot of the

Tissues in her juvenile heart

As the billow of her night

As The pillar of her tired body

As the undergird for her weak shoulders

As The king of her threatened soul

As The man of her womanhood

As the human part missing in her nature

Because it was him.



She led herself wallow in the

Most turmoil of the whirlpool

in his social-sphere that came to her

Young academic world

For money

For sanity

For sanitation

For security

For preparedness

For social emergence

For the future calamity

And for self-completion

Because it was him

And he was available.



Married, settled and most available,

Available to all; the young, the adult and the aged

Available to men, bi-curious and women

Available to the poor, peasant and the owning,

Available to the unschooled, the so-so, and the knowing,

Available to the widows, the married and the divorced

Available to the immaculate, the citizens of red-street world

The Harem keepers, red-tent keepers and the ****’s protégée,

Available to the Arabs, Negroes, Asians, the black Jews, Chinese and the Albinos,

Available to the whites, Ab-origins, the lame, the bearded and ****-less women,

Available to the epileptic, the ghosts, the dead, and for the burial rituals of the Luo,

Available he was in extra version as a Libertino.



By Alexander Opicho

(From, Lodwar, Kenya)

Mail-opichoalexander@gmail.com
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2023
Kaiser's hiccups
/are/
   and \were\
   legendary
and probably
  |will be|

having a little break cleaning the house, after having taken out the garbage, the dustmen always come later than the postman, around 2am, i'm guessing my street is their last point of call... which suits me just fine... the house was almost entirely cleaned, vacuumed, floors wiped with detergent... ugh... **** it... lazy fingers... i opened up my guitar case, the PIECYK (amp) is ******, i still have my first ever acoustic guitar but i'm missing three strings, my electric still has all 6 strings... i'll get some jam out... i haven't practiced in years... i figured: if i can't find a drummer... if i can't find a bass player... try the mandolin outside a girls window once, give up the dream, put a poster of a rock band on my wall... do some art when i'm completely "out of it": drunk... poetry: not a most spectacular art... well: it would be spectacular without all the ******* puritans of form, rhyme and: meter? they call it a meter but not a metre? that's a bit like telling someone you weigh... that's mass in kg multiplied by "X" is... 999.6N... ah... i know... science shoved it's pickled brain into casual talk: the distinction between weight and mass... mass came after weight... weight is still commonly expressed foundation akin to height... but it was a welcome break with my seemingly dead electric guitar... dangled a few jangles and jingles of remembering when i used to play... Silverchair's Shade, Red Hot Chilli Pepper's Under the Bridge... Eric Clapton's Layla... Link Wray's Rumble... Grieg's in the House of the Mountain King...

only today i realised that people are truly lonely...
odd... when i was in my utter depths of despair:
no one came... but who did come? me!
i picked myself up, no one was willing...
but then... coming across a descending /
an ascending choir of song in an empty church
then hearing a great wind disperse the singing:
i did have my technological asset with me...
the hallucination, the, "hallucination" was so potent
that... regardless of putting in my headphones
or not... the singing continued...
it was only when i scuttled and hid beneath
the altar and took the altar cloth off the altar
and covered myself momentarily with it
then starting running around the church like
a headless chicken... i know! i know! i know with
a BURNING I KNOW... if i uttered a word
i would hear the wrong reply!
either a god descending or a devil ascending...
after all... either side has a singing choir...

people are truly lonely...
i'm alone... loneliness is something that
attracts people to me...
i can't stomach loneliness...
for me that's like... the cul de sac of former
extroverts having an orange with no
orange juice to trickle down into a glass:
half full? regardless the optical misnomer of
calling the same glass: same... half empty...
i am more than willing to do this security
job because i get to do some decent work...
like being a chemistry teacher...
it's a great narrative canvas...
i write over what was already talked (over)...
that's how you get to paint by writing...
you're not some Tolstoy's...
no... not some Pavlov's dog trying to wet his appetite
but also sweat... via drooling saliva...
before my shift i had that random conversation
with mother...
she was watching the t.v. adaptation
of Leo Tolstoy's War & Peace and i said to her:
i don't recall having ever read Tolstoy...
he's not like Dostoyevsky, is he?

so we compared: Tolstoy is the writer
of the macro-cosmos... of events that shake nations
and the individuals: "individuals" are sort of:
chess-pieces...
it's the sort of literature of the salon...
Dostoyevsky is a psychologist...
a world war II might be taking place...
but... but... some Heinrich *******is getting dealt
a terrible hand of both luck and fortune...
like i said to my ailing mother:
she half-jokes aligned with giving birth to me
being her crucifixion...
i joke back: maybe if i wasn't born
i would have both my hinds...
i was once called a: hunchback angel by a guy
advocating the advent of the DUB-STEP musical
genre... way before DUB-STEP became bust
and only associated with SKRILLEX
"drop the button buster, beat, blah blah"...

reimagine drunk conversations in a pub...
in a PLOOB... Scouse? i don't know... maybe somehow
someday, maybe...
    ich sehen rot.. ergo: ich aufladung,
i.e. go! i.e. gehen!

people are so lonely, not having read anything of
philosophy...
if i were to learn anything from the sage-father
that my father isn't....
read philosophy when i'm old and clinging ton sanity
with a chance: oops...
*******... death end clue...
what?                        before you're dead...
please leave your nappies alongside the rest
of the remains of you...

i was having a: drinking session with
newly married couple... Irish traveller...
i downed his, my, his, my: whichever pint
long before the closing hours were done...
Frankie... Francesca...
**** me... Matthew Conrad "m.d."

it's called: tunneling!
me what?! a **** was asking me to g back
to her flat to sniff some *******...
smoke some ****....
i'd love to...
        but i need to make my mother
a coffee come 9am...

i never realised people could become so lonely
and when drinking enough become so blatantly obvious
about it...
it took me one night trip to find a fox's corpse
by the side of the street
to subsequently find a skip and some black bin bags
wrap the road-****... walk with it for almost five miles,
stopping off at the house to weigh myself
then me and the carcass...
amassed to about 7kg... a big, healthy *******
of a fox...
when i was picking him up from the pavement
at 5am a man and a woman were eying me up
like: no... not a ******... a shaman...
they should i might be pretending to chop the fox up...
i just didn't want such a beautiful creature,
beautifully dead, serene, lying on the side of the street...
the only burial i gave him was throwing him
into some thorny bushes by a stream...
another time i was playing i-see-you-but-you-don't-see-me
with another fox... sat on a curve and just eyed it...
until a woman passed the fox and me sitting across
the street drinking a beer... WE'RE MEDITATING!
did the fox flinch? nope... the woman walked about a metre
from the fox... ****** didn't flinch...
i was working up to the TOTEM...
it took one afternoon of the door being opened to
my kitchen and me cooking up two curries...
hey presto: BRODY...
that ****** came for leftovers from meals for over a month...
until, he stopped coming...
i'm guessing he was hit by a car...
but... i'm guessing my care for one fox being
somewhat properly buried and another fox coming
to inquire about: what smells so good
is the reason why i have captured such great photographs
of a fox in my garden...

- hmm... date? or after work coworker drinks?
i know that i scribbled in my little notepad
when she went on her Nth visit to the toilet...
my guess is that males have weaker bladder
of the sexes... a SPRINKLE OF SOME MARIJUANA..
i'm waiting for VOLTAGE...
i'm about to hallucinate in ink... burgundy mixing itself
with Bishop Purple...
those first 30 minutes after a sunset...
cycling down the A12 with heavy traffic... reaching the Green
Belt between Romford and Mark's Gate...
breathing through the nose...
Spring is teasing... Spring is teasing with her
oncoming stealth of scents...
the earth is yet again starting to breathe...
first comes the botanical kingdom,
soon after will come the kingdom of the insects...
wait! i have not heard of an angel or a demon
associated with botany! in charge of, say... roses...
too good of a mark for a Saint George with...
or was that St. Stephen...

write like an imitation of ice-skating...
pretend to fall... gain momentum...
think out a thinking of shadow, curb,
night and walking Ninja hey-presto! feline...
think a loudness: think the loudness...
the ***** of a 4 x 4 pedestrian cross
section of Tokyo...
leave your cycling attire on the bed, stinking of you...
watch a female cuddle and curl up to your Lycra
long-shanks for the specific reason: been cycling...
acid on a bicycle... the 1st and the only ever tRIP...

i always wanted to travel to India...
and walk back to England...
i always wanted to do that...
second: if? aha... QUESTION "question" questing onion
quest of an onion... ANSWER:
i swear, i: as it were... as it is... i: as it were:
i of i, i off i, i vs. no-i...
not i vs. not-i: schizoid broo... Brrrrr... BWOOM(B)
***** a-plenty with witches...

fly fly away my little star...
fly fly away my little st'ah... st'ah...
Stachurski! da da da... ditch Z-Detusche:
na minute, na chwile! na jedno
i drugie dingo dingo!

Lord of the Mushroom!
and mushy peas... and... dhal...
Lord... Bel
              פִּטרִיָה               (Be-EL)

i'm shocked that the gnostics didn't...
to be honest? what was missing in Hinduism?!
what was missing in Hinduism?!
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

oh yeah... that's a Satanic laugh that is...
a laugh that makes the existence of soul viable...
it is a glowing...
when one internalizes laughter with eureka
and mixes it up with stage-fright and a "hate"
for the sound of one's voice...
but then from time to time...
one is caught singing while doing chores and finds
one's voice appealing to be given song
rather than words to speak or write...

but not even in Egyptian mythology...
it was coming! it was ******* coming home!
the botanical godhead...
in the pantheon was missing!
was missing in the pantheon!
the

פ
P / PH / F (greek sidelined, referee: TH)eta
ט
T
ר
R(esh)
י
    YOD: first son of Yiddish: YON... by a boy named
YON...                  a

      e                                               i
                            Λ
                            Y                                  (LY)HH
    
                  o                       y

ה
hello friend: vowel catcher and laughter generator ...
ה not Π... that one connecting letter: ח

hmm: older than capitalism and communism,
but to simply the problem up:
capitalism is the lion
and everything English...
capitalism is the bear
and everything Russian...
vice versa for communism...
the English bred their mythos on the superiority
of a lion and... a unicorn... more a Celtic, Scottish... thing...
the Russians on... a union with the bear...
the bear and the two headed eagle: ergo:
another unicorn...
like the Srbs... serbs... two headed eagle?
the Soviet downfall with the two-headed eagles
of Chernobyl?
       ******: moi... i seriously sometimes forget
my own ethnicity i'm so caught up in English
metropolitan... cosmopolitanism...
      the Global City-Free-States... CITIES AS STATES...
very imaginable...

not City-States... rather... on the global connectivity
project?
what Dinosaur what meteor?
what super-volcano what Yellowstone
what man?
  it's a bit like Pompeii...
give the worlds greatest party and then the volcano
explodes...
better than a meteor: a volcano killed us...
Yella Big Yella...
            the greatest, supposedly no OB-EASE:
into obese...
          ah ah... tongue out... speak! the prolonged A
of neither ah not āh...
                      -
                        2

                                      ****... that's chemistry's notations...
                     2
                  -                                 (huh?!)

the macron over the A... for AAH...
i.e. not an:                                                      ah!

                        á!
                                               A
    
                                   H                        H

           á                                   'ey?!
                                ha ha: key?    hey?!

the burial ground of...
    hmm...
               BEE-EL...
      
PHTRYH: the godhead is that of a mushroom...
people partied to the music of: infected mushroom...
a god is making himself known...
like the false god of H. P. Lovecraft
horror-imago: Nyarlathotep...

precisely! what vowels!
PH or P or F?
   two H's emerged... a good sign that it's PH
for aesthetic reasons...
scribbling this down...
i feel like i'm actually left-handed...
a diametrical opposition to the stasis-enforced
gravity of nothing falling: everything sitting...

ph(aeiou)t(aioue)r(aouei)y(aueio)h(aeiou)

if insects can be allowed the dimension of godly
creatures: thousand blessings on the head!
the lion's head the eagle...
emblem of the Volk of the Volcano:
a Mushroom-Head...
                    
toilet... ah... welcome relief... the water is running...
running...
hmm... from a top... otherwise flowing...
if...
lake: mirror imitation, Lake Narcissus and
his brother Sea Samael: Death...
     like absinthe before adding water like it
was milk...
the water is in tide: with tide: use the FORCE...
tide...
   like water found the force... the force:
with force water found gravity via tide...
earth found gravity with the quake
fire found gravity with the sparkle of the stars...
fire... charcoal peered at night at the already
lighted... as he admired the lightning with fear...
no lightning ever warmed...
comforts of a distant home... fire found gravity
envying the stars... Prometheus who?
and the brothers of Gaia?
Fero...
                fire...
                              AQ... the water brother...
ah... forgot about the younger sister:
AIA...              air...

what a weird ******* date, coworker after shift drinking...
i've never been on a date with a lesbian...
i felt... TESTED... we watched almost the entire match
Chelsea women vs. Tottenham Women Hotbras...
coming close to the end of the shift she asked
if i wanted to go drinking...
sure... why not...

            hmm... it became a date... after she bought the two
rounds i paid for on our previous encounter
when we actually went ice-skating and i became
a local internet sensation for teaching seagulls how to fly:
wearing ice-skates, frozen lake: fly fly!

so we start... the pub is getting busy...
it feels worse than a strip-club...
at least in a strip-club most people are naked
and people get to wear imaginary masks...
in a pub? **** me...
people are dressed up and are made to wear
imaginary clothing! ha ha!
masks?! what masks... a LIE is 10 masks... one lie equals
10 masks... because a lie concerning
the body of soul... is accented with more than
a physical imprint...
LIE MASK AS IF PRETEND SUPPOSE SO
AS IF AS SO CALL IT QUITS
ACTING

it felt like a date... she was getting all nervy...
going to the toilet... checking her phone all the time...
i was patient, smart girl, while i was pretending to
opt out from her OCD... check the phone...
check the fridge-freezer... check your opt out
capacity for a TV license...

how do you go out on a date with a lesbian?
neither you nor her are advocating for woke talking points...
about pronouns or... Furry? listen...
she talks to me about getting FIFA '22...
i finished gaming off at PS1 and reliving the golden days
by re-watching the walkthroughs of
MGS2 (metal gear solid 2)...

because? movies are ****...
i don't want to want these women...
i want... a ******* canoe and a ******* paddle!
and a grizzly bear cub to cuddle and a birch tree to cuddle!

MUFFA!
YEROYI... AHMADI-DEM-BASHAI
YAMSH'EH GIBYT!
VAZOL: OCH TIBI IM PEO-OM-KATA
ES O I TOBOM.

no language suddenly praise with the rigidity of
continuation...
i'll be honest... what do i need a woman for?
to get old, get a haircut... buy food...
not watch the sunrise or the sunset...
instead watch the news on t.v. watch the t.v.
not watch the aquarium?
don't own an aquarium?

own a car but don't own a bicycle?!
in London...
it was 2: so nie to know you: snooze:
represented by letter Z or 2...
if 5 is S and 6 is b...

                     the marriage of letters
to numbers... numbers? meaningless...
absolutely... meaningless...
199 KILOGRAMS
200 CENIMETRES
X contra "x"...

        dead-weight marrying
      1 + 1 + 1 = 3
when marrying
o + n + e = one...
              ah! but 3 and one are different!
former? the forever unit...
latter? the splinter, E3...
forever question...

               turn 3 into omega...
when sharpen it up for a SH... hide the H...
wake up the Z... hide the Z
emerge with a v above an
                           S

call it crown....

     - so Francesca asked me to go drinking again:
again a date doesn't feel like a date...
am i supposed to know about the plethora of female
sexuality?
         **** McDonald one day...
   straight out of Orange is the New Black the next?
just for drinks... i thought we would equal out the tab
on who paid for what previously...
went into the pub at around 20:30 came out around
00:15... we watched the females' football league...
her team, Chelsea beat Tottenham at the Leyton Orient
ground: no plague of parakeets...
honestly: hand on my heart and one on my ear
standing naked before four mirrors:
i did not hear about wild parakeets... parakeets
in general since: only since i worked the Craven Cottage
shifts... Bishop's Park was full of them!
there were no wild parakeets in Essex... not that i know of...
i once listed down all the birds
i could see from my garden...
seagulls, kestrels, two hawks battling in the air,
woodland pigeons, urban pigeons,
crows, magpies, sparrows, swallows,
robins, blackbirds, Canadian geese (migrating),
mallard ducks (also migrating), swans (migrating ditto)...
but sure as **** no parakeets!

in that session i bought only 1 round...
she was hungry so she ordered food...
three plates of food...
fried wings with two sauces...
a bowl of cheesy fries with strips of bacon
and a bowl of popcorn chicken which
i first thought was: battered and deep-friend
mozzarella nuggets...
i had three things... showing off my eating skills...
my grandparents never used to eat
the cartilage and the best meaty bits
off of the chicken legs, drumsticks or wings...
i went a step further...
a bit like eating a whole apple... including the core...
aa magic trick of eating:
you begin with holding something in your hand...
then it disappears completely...
holding an apple, whole, and eating it whole...
subsequently is a bit like playing with a top hat
imagining red eyed albino bunnies, from Albania
(albino >< Albania).. clash of borrowed letters
but two completely different meanings...

etymologically: Albania: land of the Albinos:
Albanios? more like a he, noun...
a mountain, a he...
                 a lake: he and she... neither, always:
if reading English like a native
of the tongue...
                        Albatross from Albanions...
poetry borrowed from a dictionary, rigid function:
hiding the rhyme
exposing the etymological "rhyme".
Alba-
                                      white...
a dyslexic meets a Daltonist in Dover..
the dyslexic arguments are along the lines of:
Dawid Bovie... dead... pish-poor shapes to be be
before huddling out the grave
for a Madame Tussauds pose and a quick nap
and not asking for
a Doppelganger like Sisyphus without a stone
but the equivalent worth of the stone
in pebbles...

    i would be a fair god...
if i'm willing to give birth to an angel of the Botanical realm
since there's the Lord of the Flies... Beelzebub..
and there's the Lord of the Mosquitos: Jesus "sacred heart"
reincarnated by Jungian inspection
a literal: MOTHER... ******...
Chirst...
                      it's not enough to play the pig's blanket
and pretend a crucifix is a ***** and in dire need of being
used by a ******* according
to Marquis de Sade...
Phateroyah...
                     obviously the vowels will change...
with vowels like water and consonants like earth...
punctuation is like air... punctuation and a physical
representation of writing: nothing ethereal,
nothing metaphysical... writing with expression
on our faces... writing as something less and less
a claustrophobic or its implosion: to an effect...
writing less about an extension of thinking...
in the Cartesian dynamic:
res extensa: via writing, alternatively:
if one were to be prone to smoking enough marijuana:
auditory hallucinations... writing is
by definition the same variant of the EXTENDED classification
as a schizophrenic's auditory hallucination...
the former just forces it upon others...
the latter is unwarranted access to a corrupted ego...
a hurt ego...
an ego without the capacity to imagine,
to dream, to digress...

i showed her how to eat chicken proper...
i ate three wings, two chips avoiding the bacon and cheese,
and about three popcorn nuggets...
i forgot myself: once all the cartilage on the bones
was cleaned off... i went in to bite into the bones...
the ends are sort of soft and marshmallow-almost...
not in texture... in my reimagining:

reimagining - hmm... Kant...
         remembering...
a prior... remembering...
   a posteriori: reimagining...

if a crime happens we don't have an a priori remembering
tactic... ingesting the realm of a prior
with memory... remembering...
that's what we do...
what came before 5? S? or !!!!! five exclamation marks?
or? >>>>> five more-than signs?
did 5 come before five?
did words spawn numbers
or did numbers spawn words?
clearly they're not identical...
and they operate two different realms...

we have words for numbers...
as we have numbers that are also letters...
but numbers are not words...
even 3.14159....
                   is not a word, but a letter: Pi i.e. P...
it's not a word... it's at best a letter...
i'm thinking the gods are words and the angels
are letters...
  while the anti-gods are constants
and their "angels" are numbers...

constants?
                         3.14159..... is not a constant... it's a freak of O...
a circle... and a whole mythology of the Wheel...
O... ****** VENUS...
  phallus... the egg... Oh and 0ero         Z: zed extended
via snooze: zzzzz... harps and snoring... terrible music...
constants? in numbers as if creating a word?

6.02214076 × 10²³ mol⁻¹

                     Avogardo's: the equilibrium dynamic if
i remember correctly...
today i learned about...
     Jakob Fugger... back in his day worth around
400 billions "x"... who financed the construction
of St. Peter's in Rome...
i now wish i visited Rome instead of Venice...
          i would have had more fun in Rome...
  
(algebra is the reply, letters imitating
numbers... should the inclusion of MOL be a problem)...

i bit off the chicken legs marrow...
she was in the toilet about fifty ******* times, each time,
ordering more drinks...
we came in at 20:30 and left at around 00:30
at one point she was in the toilet and
i just remembered something...
they have this "thing" in Japan... where you pay a stranger
to pretend to be your friend...
i'm not pretending... but conversation is dry...
i try to ask questions: i ask questions,
i hear replies... but i don't hear reciprocating
questions... Mr. Familiar has or had no problems?
people confide in me and yet
whenever i try to confide in them
i'm told to shut up...
oh... i get it... i do...
before i knew it i was this heaven-sent ideal...
i was the strength and they were the weakness...
i see it now more than even...
she can tell me about her abusive past...
her drunk father who kissed her mother with knuckles
instead of lips... how she's a lesbian but also
a butch ******* **** with hands almost as large as mine
and how her daughter was put into care
because "X"...
but my shizophrenia is a "schizophrenia" is...
i wasted my 20s on anti-psychotic drugs and psychiatrists
that i bundled up and threw into a hornets' nest of
******* *****, threesomes (just the one, but one is
the threshold)... prostitutes: you talk more with your
eyes and your hands and your other endings
and your nose than you care to ******* lasso a string
of coherent words together...

my problem? what problems?! exactly...
there's nothing wrong with me: i have no regrets...
i don't need to speak to someone with an endearing
sake of self definition... i can just scribble notes down
and leave them for some yet to be born
****** of petty things...
i can do just that... no wonder i can't open up...
talk about... "me"? that's still packaged goods...
i'm waiting for the morbid call of a biography
postmortem...

it's strange going on a date with a lesbian...
it's not a date it's me going for after-work drinks
with a colleague...
it's me and her eyeing up the same behind the counter:
tight ***, fake eyelashes she can pull off...
her unwashed pink-fading dyed fair:
feminist... it's me telling her a little about my past:
i had long hair before,
i couldn't pull off a Jesus...
i would only grow a beard if i cut my hair...
short...
she's still trying to find me on social media...
god: i love keeping a girl in suspense whether or not
i have any social media presence...
best try it out with a lesbian first...
we talk about dating apps:
i have a knowledge of their existence...
but hardly a knowledge that might demand
the pressures of: USAGE...

i end up drinking the night away with a revelation...
i was eyeing these two pairs of love birds for some time...

when i was at the Ol' "John's" taking
a whizz... this Greek version of Freak... o.k. o.k.,
ETHAN ROARK type... balding on the top
of the cranium, allows his hair to grow long...
didn't you know...
Garry Glitter was released... he's already
been harangued by the ******* "police"....

what like Batman did a "forever"?
          
   i get paedophiles doing a second jester runner
with meeting up with underage:
sorry... not boring enough?
it's like pretending to be a mandible,
aerobic classed agility with
a prosthetic... that's what ******* a teenage girl
might feel like:
i rather run with deer....
or charm a fox into becoming my totem...
should i be reincarnated what might i come back as?
i'm not banking: i'm saying: fuchs!
fox! LIS!
if i were to freely roam the prance-lands of Essex
as a fox... that's me, done and dusted...

but i wouldn't inhibit a man willing to repent...
after all: if no forgiveness?
the Muslims were right: no crucifixion took place...
did it?
a 78 year old can be given a heave's sake....
life's fruition and that's done...
sorry for the hurt parties... living their:
adamantly purposive lives
with the weight of: Abel not dead...
sorry... the story goes... Cain murders you....
you're still live yet:
you're supposed to be dead...

i'm only making excuses for Gary Glitter...
i wouldn't be for...
Ralph Heimans...
                                 it's music and i can't stop
listening to Rock & Roll parts I & II...

**** me: i ended up the night...
she hated ***** accents.. Liverpool-day-john-ion...
part Eirish: skirmish: scoot!
a Swabian swap... an "oops": Ludwig... or was
that Lufthansa...
this girl, a ***** bridge,,. i'd love to add hired
bride...
                  but instead?

Traveller Irish... i was talking to a bridge...
bride...
you want a drinking race?
ejecting the two pairs...
i snuggled down my pint: his pint...
in 3x glugs... i saw a phantom of an opera...
what?she told me she never used social
media before marrying?
why do i need to Afghanistan to find
datable brides? i squeak and wriggle myself
into the CAMPER VAN culture...
Irish travellers... so? i'll drink with them...
i'd drink with a repentant ******* asking:
was it anything like Nabokov prescribed?!

£30 for 3.5grams of ****...
time excavated? 30+ hours...
£120 + £10 for entry for an hour with a *******...
well... i'd love to prove my masculinity
with having a competing:
hopeless: always alive sort of battery life:
kept up: *******...
but even i think *** is primarily a dosage of
insect desires...
mammals like us sometimes
tend to play games to escape the pressures
of ***...
requested: what? getting my beard trimmed
or getting my underwear "lost" or my ******* "trimmed"?

i get it... ******* are people who are not afforded
a chance to compensate...
relieve themselves through the shared
antics of (shared) grief...
just like Jesus Christ once crucified can't be
resurrected! n'est ce pas?!
what if... the ******* can be left alone...
in his freedom and a freedom-sickly-cage...
what if?!

a bit like saying:
but i can't be anti-racist...
i can be a non-racist...
but i can't be: anti-racist...
                    there are humans either side of
the "argument"...

one mighty argument of goo after another...
inverting the whole dynamic of dates...
seen your face for over a year...
now i heard your voice: your soul...
you heard me laughter...

a naked table, a naked chair...
a dressed table, a dressed chair,
a lightbulb with a cloche...
rigid Slavic KLOSZ...
walls: brick or slab...
naked... wallpaper slapped on...

   how did that "date" end up?
i was speaking to Irish Travellers...
the ****** types... caravan dwellers...
with the girl... snogging before
ordering a pint....
how she was Lady Margaret all pristine
didn't drink or use social media
before getting married...
i was chasing pints...
race: 3x glugs down...
  i out-chased him...

the pub was closing, we wanted the people out...
strange so, talking to this Irish Traveller Lassie,
most settled people with mortgages or
council houses, flats... avoid speaking to Irish Travellers...
but the revelations she uttered...
i might as well been talking to a Muslim girl...
by her account...
she didn't start drinking before she was married...
she didn't use social media,
she said that in the travellers' community having
a social media account is a bit like *******...
hell: i think it's much worse...
fair play to the capitalistic system...
but social media is what it is...
         it has marketed our private-lives...
not written as a complaint...
                        i allowed for that to happen...
willingly...
now i can't simply walk away from the gallery...
i still don't know what to do with it
instead of making if a reference point akin to:
the red and the amber and the green
of traffic lights...
the "system" wasn't going to capitalise on the market
of my dating preferences and ****** encounters...
sure... i don't mind a public "dear diary"...
a place to store links to music videos when i forget
to add them to my browser's bookmarks:
because i've probably added the same song twice...

but Kant has been bothering me...
ever since i wrote:
a priori remembering
    and a posteriori reimagining...
why do i think that it's impossible
to a priori reimagine?
              
i need to go back to the rubric
and try to burn it into my head like the alphabet
was burned into my mind once...
one of the following four
is impossible:
    with the simplest expression for each:

(analytical) a priori                             (analytical) a posteriori
1 + 1 =2                                                   not every man is a ******
wrong!                                                   some men are
that's synthetic a priori!
+, /, £

(synthetic) a priori                               (synthetic) a posteriori
1 + 1 = 2                                                   £: money makes monkey
i synthesised these                                either that shaman
numbers...                                              mushroom on an ant's
analysed what prior?                            buttocks or:
the increasing number                          the botanical "anomaly"
the added, subtracted,                        money is: asexuality it's
multiplied,                                              what if Adam gave Eve
by god sq. rooted?!                              her first un-earned banknote...
1, 2, 3, 4...                                              spend freely! not having
                                                                earned it!
                                                               what if Eden and the apple
                                                                are wholly outdated
                                                                metaphors?

hmm...

the first £10 she got? was that money earned or money freely
given? was she handed down an allowance or
her first earnings? the trickling down idea follows suit:
if her father gave her money for free... for completing "chores"...
if he gave her an allowance: worse still...
without chores...
why wouldn't expect the sane fir passable:
future partners: daddy day-care "hoes"...
                           my daddy this, my daddy that...
HUBBY no. 2... give give...
i drink less... i smoke some marijuana
and i remember that i read some philosophy...
no new grounding since Wittgenstein
gobbled down Spinoza in a ferocious
of homosexual madness of jealousy...
misunderstood by at least 4 parties...

*** and women unplugged...
some of us boys are playing a game of Alchemy...
solid silver, liquid silver...
i guess plastics are gassy silver...
***... can i please assume there might be
two mouths breathing?

I ate your breath before you ate the apple...
i ate your breath while you gauged
my eyes and saw milk in your *******...

in the labyrinth of: i sigh...
i'm to your bidding bound, sire...
i ate your breath long before you might have ate...
that fruit of autumn, fallen, rotten...
fermenting.... this rotten fruit...
no, not plucked from three... ripe and sweet...
rather picked up attired in autumn's clothes:
auburn, over-ripe cinnaamon-brown,
orange and yellow...

you gave me a drunkard's bear or ilk!
male deer! you gave me a drunkard's apple!
i might be stumbling:
but i'm still chiming with the blues!
what Mosad Mandarin faction of
the intelligence community?

   ching-fang-*******-wall'ah-CHANG
wrote a similar (liar) armistice peace-war:
if we can't use this military equipment...
let's, make... ******* movies!
woo yee HA!

Baron astronaut, ergonomic... a house ought
to have two doors: H... a house
ought to have rooms focused upon the dynamic
of Y...
oh **** your woo! woo! glue my ***
of the Tetragrammaton:
i heard it once before:
the Arabs got their pearly and Kentucky bound
Timothy....
while the Hebrews got the paranoia...
windmills in Chelsea, London,
not Kansas... New Lit Bits of Jersey....

i was left aghast... um... i laughed...
i couldn't say the words ****... pairing it up with her voice...

well... according to sources all knowledge a piori
is ANYLYTICAL... but what was i "analysing"
when i was conjuring the letter R or the number Z?
i borrowed the circle from the sun
and the house from the cave?
i must have done so...
i probably conjured the game of rugby from
the sea's tides and yoyo from an egg of a dodo...
and the goal posts from the letter H...
ripples in the water ZigZag and M and W...
cosine as the refined W
and sine as the refined M...

   a parabola confined in a W...
D in do and devil...
God with Dog and: all?! ah!

    i'm not dumb: i just want to extract more from Kant
than people, ever had, toyed with a jihad of had the Hadiths
in a puddle of paper: equaling the refined weight:
of the organic worth of bark? timber: temples of stone
have turned the gods all cold:
about 5 kilograms for a stash of a week's worth of newspapers...

please please don't let me understand myself:
please oh please don't let me understand myself:
when i'm sober and especially when i'm slightly drink...
drunk... drunk... and smoking a bit of ****...
and...

grass is green: after having established that
not everything is grass
and not everything that's grass is green
wheat? grows like grass...
but it's not green...
and it grows taller than grass
and cows and horses don't eat it...

i could watch a thousand movie and listen to a million
songs... i could even manage to love a woman
and her tell me in the cravat adorning mammal skin
caravans... but i'd still go to bed with Kant...


   it's not that difficult but i need to ask myself to burn
this rubric into my mind...
under each the easiest expression: an abstract...
i just can't word it differently:
a priori remembering...
true...
a posteriori reimagining...
also true:
after the fact of seeing a tree...
can i see a tree prior?
ergo? i can't be capable of a priori reimagining...
first i have to see a tree...
but upon seeing the tree i can't reimagine it...
therefore i can only reimagine what comes after seeing it...
how do i practice a priori remembering?
on the most practical level...
i remember 1 + 1 = 2...
history and memory...
sure... but what of history as epistemology?
as a child i'm not really taught that 1 + 1 = 2...
knowledge and 1 + 1 = 11... not "somehow" just by
"coincidence" of the missed meaning of the cipher +,

epistemology and etymology are the only
two branches that should be given access to the study
of history...

reimagining a tree is impossible in that it's a realm
of geometric abstractions that borrow from
geometric orthodoxy and render them useful:
a tree is a home, i can, reimagine a tree...
if i reimagine myself as a bird or a monkey
perched in a tree... reimagining the roof...
via the sky... but that's hardly likely,
mountain and cave dwelling: home...
a prior reimagining is in its own right something...
but reimagining resulted in the dimension
of a posteriori...
i reimagine a tree and make it: a talking tree...
i apply pareidolia...
or like with clouds... those favourites...
why would i reimagine clouds a priori?
i can... but then that would imply reimagining
cauliflowers... or rather: clouds remind me of
cauliflowers: but that's not reimagining either
clouds or cauliflowers: it's remembering what each
looks like and why, subjectively i remember:
that i think they're alike...

hmm... proof: no pudding....
clearest blue...
          or solid green... the Jade from China...
XINY X= CH
we can apply the letter X in our tongue...
that's what marijuana morphs:
the perception of time... 10 minutes already
feel like an hour....
xolera... cholera H! hhhh...
                 xorwat - croat...
                   xemia - chemistry....
chmiel: xmiel:
                              toad breath!
the stuff i sniff up before going to bed!
you ******* DYSLEXIC...

choroba: xoroba...
sickness...

  DYSLEHIC...
                   i'm asking for upgrades...
i hope my upgrades are not too: demanding...
i'm asking... i'm asking...
i'm getting **** all...
well then... best not become a priest
and conjure up what i might need...
i may need this that and the other...
Hebrew...
i'll need the vowel hiding prerogative
to be minded... i'll need Kant..
punctuation marks and numbers....
most certainly letters...
plus akin to comma....

                                 if still alive: i'll lso require death...

chwila: xwila: a fleeting moment...
lapsed timing...
           c H-A
arecz: samo-H-ah...
                  nie na xixota.... śpiew
raptem: tak! ha! ha! aha!

daj znać gdy ty i ja,
tak nagle żyją... i nie... o tak!
i mihght have a Frenchman's heart
to want: Romance after news of
a hereafter..
the moon is blue
the sun is bronze...
the air is milky in the morning...
the water is traffic and there's no
traffic... i'd like death before the explaining mantra:
what's worth a life: squid parody on... ******* skates?!

the love of the gods is doubly insulating...
first they try to demolish you: one ******* fatal claim after another...
the they employ women... they too... *******.. fail...
what are you rounding up against, you?!
sails without winds and no boats to sail with,
the supposed... great artefacts of claiming
the winds!

i once sat alone in a park... hair growing freely....
i had no addition of a face with the addition of hair...
i had no beard, not stubble...
the wind was and my long hair was
and there was, no war, no famine...
there was only dancing and twice reading
into a Charles Dickens...

twice: a rereading a text not available
for journalistic imprints of:
that satisficed mantra of derailing:
expectations of the meddling-ground....

oh well: oh nothing...
oh riddle me some more: nothing...
life is cheap: buy it bought!
sell it sold!
       earn it not living (it); earning it!
ergo: "living"... and (existentialism)...

   a king's frown is a beggar's stomach...
money makes money:
onions grow on trees!

giving birth to the son of Mammon
was... not... hard?
seriously?!
                          thank god i'm twisted in my own
sort of superstitious way...
when there's talk of a birth of an angel...
my ****** demands become joke...
i forget something, and within the confines
of something: almost: everything...

save180:

p'oh tay t'oh
but not
toe-may-toe
that's not
t'oh may t'oh
but...
t'oh m'ah t'oh

         if only it was a p'oh t'ah toe t'oh.
Im coming of age
In the era of the devoid
Hollow greed seeps unearned
from elephanitus of love  

all the dead *** heads
and the glorifed child **** stars
live in tandem with virginity commerce
a descriptive high full of lies

here we are raised to never forget
the look on a beautiful girls face
when the zippers break and all the mallets fall
when mud and blood and ***** mix to a collegiate concoction

Leaving her to bear the scabbing burns
The openings the ambrosia flesh wounds
The giant stamp of pulsing indecency

The markings don’t go so well with her hollow moon smiles
They don’t blend with her regal clavicles
To bend them in with a wrench
Would do no damage to this already feral *****

Don’t try to hide
The billboards may be sagging
But they carry the message loud and effeminate
All the drum ticks and coated arteries will explode
They cant be stopped

Mucho gusto, muy bien
All that we ever where locked into some
Tooth paste stained and tattered bibliomeca
It is true I have become that broken shameful collection
Which we are taught to stain in the wood works of our memory

I turn to page 1168
And I know that the bruises will be permanent
Surrounding the globe and bridging in the gaps
The ones that they left between your calamity eyes

Will they still love me with one foot locked in a bear trap
And a hobo having the last of my eyelashes ?
Or  maybe just the scary albinos at the san Francisco bar scene
Yenson May 2019
The sous-chef of the albinos says
I'm in charge of cooking, baking and roasting
and in this hell-stance my delusions rules the roost
I've got the Crème de la crème and arsenic in tincture
prepare the grills and flames for a banquet of homicidal delight

Get that deer, King of the forest and protector of all
heave that Buck down, none but I holds power in this domain
its times of discontent, green eyes and walking dead are hungry
from challis of Madam White Snake and the shroud of San Lucifer
a sacrifice, a sacrifice for cold hearts and all mothers of the spawns

The belly crawlers and spawns in Hades kitchen toil
to high jack the mind of this regal imposing stag unsurpassed
hounded, mud-spattered, neither the raging winds nor savage beasts
snares and putrid guile's, poisoned mindless and shameless tarring
the buck bedded in Mother Nature in solace true and enduring light

So the sous-chef of the witless albinos says, no matter...
lets get a clone of that regal buck, sharpen knives and slice away
pepper, season hung, drawn, quartered, boil and simmer all the way
go tell tales of our magnificent menu, that stag is ours, for the eating
a merry feast for you all, pieces of eight for the dead deer's chest, ahoy, ahoy, ahoy.....!!
The meanings associated with the deer combine both soft, gentle qualities with strength and determination:
Gentleness Ability to move through life and obstacles with grace Being in touch with inner child, innocence-being sensitive and intuitive Vigilance, ability to change directions quickly Magical ability to regenerate, being in touch with lifes mysteries
Francie Lynch Sep 2019
Only Albinos
Can be  mimes,
(Or Johnny or Edgar Winter)
For Hallowe'en.
As for trick or treating,
There's enough Al Jolson masks
Out there to ***** us all.
Someone once said, "A mime is a terrible thing to waste."  :)
Je m'échoue
Au tréfonds de tes entrailles
Je plonge
Je remonte à la surface
Je respire
Je plonge
Je remonte à la surface
Je respire
Je plonge
Je remonte à la surface
Je respire
Inlassablement
Je suis Moby ****
The Whale, dit Migaloo dit Galon de Leche
La baleine à bosse albinos, ton ombre dans les ténèbres
Et chaque fois que tu vois léviter
Dans l'air ma queue de cétacé
Tu jettes au large ta pudeur
Tu largues tes amarres :
Tu te confesses, nue et sincère,
Tu m'avoues tes faiblesses,
Tes rêves et tes envies
Et tu pars en une jouissance infinie
Pendant que je te bénis de ma semence
Et que je t'offre l'entière rémission des péchés,
La gloire et la vie éternelle.
Je suis Moby ****,
Je suis Migaloo,
Je suis Galon de Leche,

Je suis ta Sainte Trinité
Ton triple humpback whale,
Ton ombre trois fois portée .
Écoute mon chant, c'est le fruit de tes entrailles :
Il se nomme Désir
C'est un chant qui absout, qui assouvit
Qui transforme les vagues de ma bosse
En élixir d'immortalité.
Il vogue sans radar et sans boussole
Vers les isthmes immergés et les détroits éternels
De ton Atlantide intime
Dernière frontière où gît ton Triangle des Bermudes

Ecoute le chant divin de ta baleine à bosse,
Ton cétacé, ton albinos
Et joins ta voix à sa voix et fonds-toi
En valses et galipettes
Dans la toison obscure et attirante
De l'ombre de son ombre.
AKELDAMA (THE FIELD OF BLOOD)
If I were Shakespeare
I would say: what hath happened to you mother earth?
Fallen creation! What hast thou done?
Abel’s blood laments from the ground
Innocent streams of blood flow in the swamps
Calling in the deepest seas
Yet creation joys at its screams and groans
Blood and bones spread like a red carpet
Bodies hung like clothes on a washing line
Akeldama! Akeldama! The earth has become!

Brothers butchering each other over stolen money
Babies murdered in the name of abortion
Albinos sacrificed in the quest for wealth and good luck
Oceans are dump sites for human carcases
Pastors servicing their ministries with innocent souls
Alters covered with ***** and blood
Bribery has become the order of the day
Akeldama! Akeldama! The world has become!

Authored outside the garden of Eden
Anger and heartlessness have become a burden
The love for money has made hearts to harden
With personal pockets to fatten
Forgiveness and good virtues are forgotten
Akeldama! Akeldama! The earth has become!

Shattered into pieces my heart bleeds
My soul weeps tears of blood
Tears that are torn and roasted before they reach the ground
Causing my troubled heart hasten to pound
Just like a floating trophy blood shed circulates around
My voice is bubbling within me
I am like an ant under an elephant’s hove
Akeldama! Akeldama! The earth has become!

Judases creeping in the shadows
Like giant monsters
Innocent hearts dripping and drizzling with blood
The guilty jubilantly roaming the streets

The church is silent
A sleeping lion!
A toothless bull dog
Blood stained tithes and offerings
Flesh fuelled businesses crowding the CBD
Deceit and betrayal is a game of hearts
Dead consciences that cannot be resuscitated
Children are fatherless and mothers are childless
The rich are heartless
The heirs are senseless
Crying is useless
They deem Christianity meaningless
Talking about Ubuntu is a sign of weakness
Leaders are foreign to selflessness
Oh Akeldama! Akeldama! The earth has become!

To him who hold the seven stars in his right hand
Who is the first born of all creation?
Turn not a blind eye on our afflictions
For how long will we sing the sour song of Akeldama
A song written by the greedy and blood thirsty
A rhythmless song sung when strings are broken and voices are full of anger
Akeldama! Akeldama! The earth mourns!
Oh Akeldama!
Yenson Jul 2019
The lowdown is
the low down of the west
play their games the western way
clutching a fluffy toy says this is a teddy bear

Come down the Equator
where men were born men never were boys
and blazing sun seasons and bake you mahogany hard
in the palatial forestry you learn to look the wild beasts in the eyes

The refrigerated souls says nowt
when you bawl at lions its your turn at the watering hole
and can mimic the hiss of the serpents and pull hogs by the tail
you know red eye albinos only come out at night to pose by the fire

I, who have stood under the African sun at noon
and offered it more coal to kindle its hellish fire even more
I, owner of Sango excalibur that has slain twenty plus in bloodless bliss
can I be moved by ice cave dwellers who are forever children on knees

I own rays of sun and spake with ancestors unbowed
breathe the air of the Serengeti and ascended Olumo for homage
I will drink my own blood and hear the calls of my deities to arm
I will never be moved by the music of the unclean souls in howling
celebrating their shame and praising the jins of weakness and cowardice

I am my father's son, born under African sky
I am the land that made the man of the man of the living men
I know the star that led three to herald the King of Kings forever
I know who I am, grind  me to dust I will rise and tell you yet again
I am my father's son...I know who and what I am......
I am my father's son...I know who and what I am......
I am my father's son...I know who and what I am......
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2022
title: cow borrow...
body: oranges smile.

https://www.unicode.org/L2/L2018/18323-open-four.pdfv(freeze: 444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444)

weak spot: Lao Che: Powstanie Warszawskie: the Warsaw Uprising... i tend to cry... when my heart constrict into being sized akin to a pebble... then: ah... release! tears! there: stands! a mountain! a monument of me!

i couldn't possibly give either the Hindus or the Arabs
credit for our modern numbers...
given the following rubric:

ένας: 1 - one - I - iota
δύο: 2 - two - Z - zeta
τρία: 3 - three - E - eta
τέσσερα: 4 - four - μ - mu... of h
πέντε: 5 - five - S - esse
έξι: 6 - six - b - ba-toom
επτά: 7 - seven - Γ - gamma
οκτώ: 8 - eight - B - beta
εννέα: 9 - nine - P - or rho
μηδέν: 0 - zero - O - omicron

the numbers were already here...
             "hidden" or rather... the Romans knew arithmetic
in the following fashion:

XI + IX = **
                
                  so... it was nothing new...
to have ascribed something numerical to what was
otherwise a letter -
a sound...                   hmm...

what of the Japanese?
               六 - or... ロク: which is six...

there's a reason why i won't budge on this matter...
i had one Egyptian fwend "friend" once:
what a disappointment he was...
like with most Muslim acquaintances:
the feeling of conversation soon turns into
a feeling of conversion...

               such nagging *******: always looking
for proselytes: who'd they'd treat as inferiors...
not even as Janissaries or Mamluks...
just... eh... some odd convert...

              obviously i didn't, convert...
but i'm looking into a second Islamic schism...
oh no... the Persians wouldn't bow to an invading
horde of Arabs: Muhammad was not a man
of his word... that chapter has been covered...

i'm looking for a second schism toward...
the Turks... spearheading it... with Hey-Zeus...
Isa... being... well...
        Ba'al Yatoosh... lord of mosquitos...
another day another reiteration of my conviction:
since i won't be siding with the Gnostics
when the proper **** hits the fan: proper(ly)...
i'm bailing out... on this whole history...
the Pontius Pilate stance...

            it's also called the waiting game...
my neighbour's son's wife is having a baby...
the waters broke some... oh... 48 hour ago...
but the national health service didn't intervene...
C-section phobia... ****'s sake!
get that tadpole out! imagine having a child
stuck in you for almost two days...
the waters have broken...
  where's the necessary lubricant for her to push
the baby out? why can't all births be done
via a C-section? eh?! costs too much?
what's so good with a natural birth...
by comparison to other mammals...
  we're pseudo-mammals...
you watch a birth of a gazelle... it just drops out
(the mare) like a diarrhea sludge of a serpent...
plop: and it's out...
******* "dyslexic" in its ability to stand up...
but hey presto!
                      it's blinking: so it's receptive...
but my neighbour's away... i was giving the duty
of looking after Bella... this white beau of
a heterochromia: so a Dawid Bovie type...
rebel rebel... doesn't know whether she's a meow
or a woof!
           i love my neighbour to bits...
but i walk in... first things first... my library shelf
is a mess... by my standards of cleanliness...
i walk into her house: shoom! i get the whiff!
i think i just walked into: a museum dedicated
to Ed Gein...
      i'm not even joking...
  i start looking for the cat... change the water...
add some extra dry-pebbles of food to her dish...
change the stale, dried out sachet
with two options: on the menu... some parody beef
and some parody salmon in: probably not so
parody jelly... pig brain remains gelatin...
which is good... i like being reminded...
whenever i think my life's ****** up...
someone else's is... more...
                hence the topic of jealousy disappears...
thank **** for this little...
i'll take these shoes, these socks...
   and... yes, thank you: ******* into the forest
come sunset...

because why is it, in Latin... that... letters do not
have names, akin to the Greek
"fashion" of naming A: alpha... and B: beta...
hell... I is not aye: a yes, affirmative but:
iota...

i might be drinking... i might be drunk...
but i still cycle like a madman through
the traffic... next time i give a ****...
i'll give a **** when a teenage girl breaks her shins:
folds her knees and says: i love you...
blue moon... i.e. that's never going to happen...

it has happened before: Nietzsche in the zenith
of his furore pretended to be a ******...
Polacks are the Frenchmen of the Slav...
yeah: #metoo... i sometimes forget i'm a ******...
i'm more prone to suggest myself as:
HERR SWAB! ******* schwabian!...
not the tourist elder Saxon that became the islander
Englishman... something more focused...
but i get it... i too get "confused" from time...
time... time... space...

but you can't really measure language... sounds...
not really... sure...
you can... elongate an omicron into an omega:
*** via through to pool...
that's an omicron to an omega transfer:
and... no diacritical markers were or are to be used...

as a microcosm of the totality of man...
as: but one... i.e. 0.1...
this implant in me: of the retrospective of man...
history... that... however written...
just... erases itself: because... nature...
doesn't allow for a celebrity horse...
or whatever... replica after replica...
no distinction: the authority comes from:
you will not keep an Alexander the Great for...
what nature allows... scheme... little man...
nature will soon yawn and settle the matters
into creating the replica of the vast void
above it...  the game is to replicate...
      
only now i walked around a supermarket...
whiskey: check... pepsi... check...
turkey steaks for the cats: check...
wow... such... such unremarkable people...
have passed through the membrane of time...
2 children, 3 children... most of which look:
underfed...
   oh so, well... moi..
             i tried to give a ****: once upon a time...
now? well... if i'm not getting any satisfaction...
what? marry a ******* gargoyle in the making?
she drops out two plump-plum-pig-cheeks
of babies and then what?! watch television with her
till we grow old and tired?!
oh **** no!
        make me a warm bath: i'll do the vein slitting
myself... at least when i'm alone
life remains bearable... interesting:
i get to surprise myself...
      sure... sometimes i **** prostitutes...
like a good Teutonic knight might...
                   but most the time...
spare me the ******* details... there are no details...
i stroke my beard pretending to be playing
a violin... it's not going to happen:
i have a blank canvas for company...
that's my epitome... and... probably a ******* epitaph...

but i will not, give, credit... to the Arabs... or the Hindus...
for... giving European numbers...
****'s sake! XI: 11: elven eleven!
people on this continent used to substitute letters
for: abstractions akin to: the necessity of numbers
to measure... space within space...
space counter to time...
  time and... whatever...
Meister Ronaldo Retardo: no... it's not going
to happen...
             i'm not going to allow these copper-necks
to have some up-right: we evolved prior to you:
sure... now you spend a winter in ******* Finland...
******* copper-necks...
can't call them "*******"... can't call them albinos...
those supposedly tanned people of the desert...
my my... 2000 years... you ever wonder...
why the Hebrews became so... ******* pale?!
oh sure sure... we inherited numbers...
but... with the letters we wrote...
we already had the numbers!

   let's have some... pseudo... insert burp:
something akin to the Copernican revolution
implosion...
                     ౺

      μ                           h

                   4: look left...

huh? because it can't possibly be
the 5th disengaging with the existence
of Poland...
like that... ha ha... joke... from 19th century
France...
Ubo Roi... by Alfred Jarry...
  ha ha! it's really funny now...
oh, don't mind me minding the English:
they are island dwelling folk...
half fixated on being Saxons: half fixated
on being Welsh: Celtic...
           never mind them... how England stated:
war against **** Germany!
but... but... last time i heard...
Polacks waged war on these isles...
in the spitfires...
  but what Englishman ever fought their
claims on the lands of Poland?
             mind you... it took **** Germany
combined with the effort of Soviet Russia
to conquer Poland... than it took for...
**** Germany to... conquer... France...
seriously?! France? the birthplace of Napoleon...
France wasn't conquered during the second world war:
France simply spread its legs...
it: capitulated...
the Palestinians have a term for throwing
children against grenades...
the same... the French: just throw easy *****
against anything that wriggles!

because it's funny now... the joke had to ferment...
all the way back from the 19th century...
i needed to feed my neighbour's cat...
walk into a... a... a... a ******* Ed Gein museum...
seriously... i spent the rest of the afternoon
pretending to be drunk... sitting it the garden
admiring the moon...
getting drunk on: how i ordered my household...
i'm drunk... on how... erratic... guillotine... prone...
some people are... sort of like:
   vlad: land-zurückgefordert!
but the Alfred Jarry joke is joke, right: proper...
did it age? really?
oh: the Polacks are king King John of England:
lackland hipsters...
the lesser Hebrews...
        now... oh now...
   hmm... France... post-colonialism...
the "history": how's that working with you?
if it's necessary: tear Ukraine into two!
i don't care... i'll be more than welcoming this:
Russophile attititude!
       it was a good joke... in the 19th century...
but... given France... and the 21st century...
post-colonial realities...
eh... i smirk...i'm trying ol find someone
under 5ft4... who's... greedy with canons!
Elba?! nice... pretty little island...
want to repeat history?!
          Alfred Jarry: ha ha!
who runs Paris, these days?
oh, wait... ******'s dead...
              i want to live in Tel Aviv....
or... like a lot of the Beatnik poets...
in... hubris...via: Tangiers...
                         funny joke... the French, though...
huddling... into shadows...
there's nothing to laugh about at...
is, there?
            
bewildering:
we have names for numbers...
but we don't have names for letters...
undifferentiated:
nouns conrta consonants...
1 is indivisible...
2 is...
   well... 1 is divisible by 0:
ergo 0.1...
            moons and monkeys and money...

time to pretend to have hair
and comb it...
such that is history that is France:
that is post-colonialism...
and... whatever the hell is allows...
let it... 100 years later... some variation of
a Reconquista?!
             great joke... the Polacks having
no land...
           like: you have a history or just:
the ******* architecture?
    it's not nice... seeing you being *****...
Charlemagne is... twisting... turning
in his grave... shouting via death:
death to all that live!
              ROT... and by now: rot is best.

no! nein! nie! niet!
numbers didn't arrive from India... via the Arabs!
we already had the numbers!
within the confines of letters!
*******... take your pride back to the camel jockeys
you were originally bound to be:
******* sand people!
  i can't fall asleep lovely bound to the temp.
of the equator... check me... come...
hmm... the northern bound... height...
come... the darkness and the silence...
and the coldness of Siberia! *******: Baghdadi:
ummah: chasm of wants... *******...

******* luxury of temp.: ******* inbreds:
me too... i'd love to **** my cousins!
i'd love to be a cousin ******.
Josh Cooper Aug 2018
I believe Angels are women;
Forever kissing the red to rose petals scattered on bedsheets in faint light rooms.
I believe Angels are Albinos
Holy yellow hair sparkling in the moonligh
Angels have deep kissing pink lips, I know.
I know Angels give whiskey the brown sparkle.
One sip to it and you can't fight the love back.
Tonight, I want to be commanded by an Angel.
Yenson Apr 2022
The lilies from the common grounds
were *******
flawed stained lacklustre and vibe less
in honesty
voiced these are foul and substandard
the lowlands
albinos became incensed and maddened
turbulently riled
ah! the black rose may be rare and unique
look closely see
the intense deep, dark purple, maroon hue
so vividly majestic
nothing compares toned lowlands albinos
a-pruning we must
bring on the weeds and dry out the soil
leave sunless and
in howling winds and storm strewn isle
crowd out with
Snowdrops, Nemesia and Snapdragons
call the Hellebores
for truly they are the real bores from hell
as senseless as anarchy
Yenson Apr 2022
I don't care
I haven't stolen nothing
from anyone
I haven't gone begging
and borrowing
Have no secret hidden life
or stolen goods
so invade away all you like
I am nowt
but a shinning bright honest star
ahoy! invade away
into the deep blinding black paragon
and behold
that you can never ever even hope to be
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
let us want linear narratives -
by the current standard of: narratives -
let us all want parallel linearalities
and then: on some odd
occasion: forced to mesh-into
focus point -
                       when we were somehow
young and england
was a place at a time
when the handover of hong kong
happened -
what subsequently happened:
custard and fudge brain
crayon squiggly: attached to a fridge:
with a magnet...

here's to: i'm out to lunch...
toying with poker and... altruism...
solipsism, "atheism" and
albinos for autism...
rather: nothing will elevate
this circus -
          
   oculus per oculus -
     eye for an eye...
      skin for stretch... belts and leather...
and i hope: non-kosher shoes...
whitey brightey almost the: "almighty"...
but god! chugging along
with all these bachelor lepers -

i want to earn honour as a yack
herder in mongolia -
chequers: not chess -
because i need to go back
to m'ah rootz... my caucasian -
caspian sea - mongrel mongol
and of turkic or hOOn!

talent: "talent": a hot topic for
the imagery of phallus -
          a talent for a porceil girl of
toy-kyo...
           with a rabbit sized
bouquet of fleshy pwetty pwetty
pet-als!

  or... that it once happened...
the steve colberT show...
  the blind stevie minor...
        keeping up appearances...
a mrs. bucket that stressed!
it's: mrs. bou-kay... i.e. bouquet...
beau! literally! beau-*****-full!

stefan col-bear -
                stephen coal-b'err...
              it's tragic... a mrs. buckeT
sort of tragic...
         it's not as much fun when...
there might be people
who joke around "illiteracy" of those
who didn't used the proper
orthography...
that english isn't stress-laden
with orthography - but can be deviated
with and back into:
to speak is one thing: to write:
another...

  mrs. bouquet / alias bucket -
or a stephen colberT...
         alias: col-ber...
coal-bear...
                     coe-bare...
           it's like elevating a status
symbol: yeah... i too wish
i had a surname like: VIN-D'SOR...
or win-win-d'sour...
or windsor...
                
windy, sir?
            it's not like there will ever be:
something to play with in english
that might arrive at: suspense!
  it's the bare enlisted minimum -
i too have reached my cul de sac
of ingenuity -
perhaps i invented a light-bulb -
perhaps i have confronted
a river with a bridge -
        there's no second "eureka":
there's only a devolved "word salad":
or an attempt at a Prokofiev linear -
even with all the flurry of
decapitated sounds
running around like...
                    decapitated "sounds"...

i still come to the conclusion:
this was never going to be a language
that could be extracted
and used in a formal manner...
paint me a practical picture:
preferably a schematic used in
engineering: when looking at a Kandinsky...

now look at these words:
there's a rigidity of spelling -
a kept grammar?
well... to know blue is to also...
settle for the hue that might tease
either green or yell-ow...

               but is it a venture: prim formal?
i hope to find grave and bed come
11pm... and my legs come 6am
tomorrow... and at least 3 hours
of walking... till the point that
my underwear will rub so much
on my inner-thighs that
i will have to smear savlon cream
on what will become oyster flesh
tenderness from all the rubbing...

go full commando or wear a thong?
it's impossible to walk these parts
naked...

statures of man being childless -
this full-embodiment of a self-to-act-upon:
that there's nothing selfess about
the endeavour of clogging the thoughtlessness
of aether and the frictionless
eternal dynamism of heliocentrism -

sum up! there's that call for verbiage!
people often want,
instructions - the verb that does
the verb and some other bidding...
i have yet to read a philosophy book
that allowed itself:
grammatical peacocking -
that grammar is somehow only
ever pure instruction:
it can never be deviated from:

lesson no. 1: how you speak is:
the passable grammar lesson you will
ever hear...
get fudge: thrown into the deep
end and told to: tread water...
head above the floating mantel piece!
****** don't stink it up
with drowning!

       ergo: the great yawning sea...
and all the ghosts and myriads
and sentinetls and gargantuan: failed...
prodigies that come with it:
adding of course... a looting of
spanish armanda or some...
**** u-boat tricklet...

            god... when evil was fun...
when evil was tinged with:
a german plight of competition with
the french and the english and
the spanish and the russians:
this strange: by god... this very strange
inferiority complex...
you simply can't stage a formidable presence
with all that technological
advances on a whim:
when shuffling along with
some decanting'ant: k?

               of the little people that
england has somehow incubated:
where's my bombast?!
where's my: i'm here, i'm now...
i'm thoroughly fire-proof!
where is that... maybe not allowing
myself a presence nibbling at
crumbs from the tablature of London...
go back to Edinburgh?
get lost in Vales?
         yes... way over "there":
in way way over in les country...
a go-get-to-Lesley brittle...

             - which wasn't much of a sunday...
a tired body a welcoming
bed: the part of life where
every 34 year old might
finally settle for: get busy dying -
or vegetating or... basking
in the suns of former glories -

these ample three-sometimes-four
worded junctions
for all the biped beasts that:
prance or dance or run spectacular
migrations of fake:
in their marathons -
  
i have truly managed to assert that:
the world can happen by myself -
beside... on some distant reservoir
of thirsty new lives and:
vitality pomps -
    for their vitality i have a submergence
into a vitriol i dare not exercise -
that's of course:
they have been incubated by a lie...
any lie in the framework of
the already unshakeable complex
of pedagogy -
   it would have been better to have...
beside crushing me...
not given me this leisure of
education...
              to stand organic and proper...
to appeal to the thespian monotony
of customer service roles
where: the customer is always right...

it was foolish to educate a man
beyond the age of 16... all the guys who
dropped out of school come 16
are now either mortgage shackled...
definitely with wife and most certainly
with child in tow...
i'm hardly my own making...

tone death: blair -
again... is it a solipsistic statement,
that... famous mea culpa?
      it's my fault for most certainly it is...
but at what point did
other people stop existing...
at what point can i blame fortune
on myself?
this sunday was depressing because...
i made a bet...
on 8 football matches...
a bet on a win... and a bet on...
both teams scoring...
16 matches to choose from...
but this is why i abhor gambling...
it's this stupendous suspency
akin to reading a thriller...
which i have never...
but you get the idea should
such results as: 6 - 1 tottenham hostpurs
vs. man united /
   7 - 2 aston villa vs. liverpool...
ever... degrade your least
chosen of avenues of "hope"...

               - somehow a "little known" nuance...
albion is a chalk-faced
grinning monstrosity of lime, scaling
up to no ends meet: and meat...
of course... the kosher furore
surrounding the omnivorous
tacticians of: one rice patty
per village: sq. a dozen heads...

i too want linear pursuits of language!
hey! over 'ere!
i want to take it upon myself
to be native and be get-given
the wings of flight!
looks like i'm nowhere going...
looks like i'm going nowhere:
but i'm still somehow: a here...
in this heliocentric ferriswheel
post-scientific darwinism this: pop cull-the-truants!
i am somehow hier...
herr sir-farce-a-****-to-borrow...
and a lot...

to have to escape the russians
and the polacks and the germans
and all these subsequently not-listed
cretins of the european pervesion...
of: self-mutilating yodle yo...
barracks up-right and standing...
congregating around
the mafia proposal of the:
       vain-ticky-tic-toc-bataclan...

dog collars of priest simply ooze:
satisfaction with:
a missing status of believbility...
but do not fret!
the hougenots are the last rats
to bail... of a sinking ship...
and there's all this night's worth
to want to exploit with
the burdens of sleep!

that we are pulverised dead-end-knottings...
insomnia provoked...
it's no matter...
the people without attache
verbiage... with strict cohesive
conducts are all ablaze...
i want these skimmies for
detailing scoop of fat over fat:
leaving little of beliebvable bone
to be a miscarriage of... ahem...
"reality";

i have been accused of
missing an ego a clog in the jargon
of the: "ex machina":
a reality without a deity
is almost like...
            a flaking of a skin...
that must be associated with
an invitation to possessing a self.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2017
perhaps they'd like these linguistic albinos, but there is a greater allegiance to the tongue, than to the flesh, to the flag, to the geography... there's a transcendental allegiance to the soul... i hold my allegiance to the tongue, even if it's imported and a parasitically gloating bud akin to cancer... i still hold my allegiance to the tongue, but not, to the people that imbue it materialistically as flag & flesh first... i have an allegiance beyond the diadem of the crown... i will speak the natives tongue, but i will not bleach myself in order to sink to their level of despair... hence i kept a dual allegiance to another tongue... nation does not come before tongue... and tongue is what is inserted to animate the soul; forget your roots, forget whether there was ever you in the first place; ******* can't bleach me into being their circus ******* that constantly tend to invent slang!*

how often i find myself wishing to speak
a third language, other than english,
**** it: even german!
but i sometimes come around thankful
that there's a cushion for the ear
to recline on...
          a song in finnish, in french,
norwegian, faroese...
         russian...
           and i'm suddenly satiated...
they might have forced out the tongue
of the africans...
but then again the skin colour
disparity, and sure, the africans
managed to climb over their loss of tongue...
problem is... they're white,
i'm white...
                my tongue is the only
thing that differentiates me from them...
i can't forget that,
       i simply can't accept the Islam
of the english language...
given that it has mutated in america
and is hardly represented by the authentic
natives... if we're going to be
so, ******* blunt;
   there has to be a middle...
  you even know how intimidating it is
to be visiting paris,
and not knowing an ounce of french?
you get to play a deaf person...
unless you find an Italian or
a Canadian girl to be your tour guide
in a hostel...
otherwise?
      cut my tongue out and start calling
me Pierre, the village idiot.
Dresden

As the war was winding down
it was decided to bomb Dresden
It had no industry and had no military target.
the bombing was vengeance
Ten thousand people were killed that night
mostly burnt to death as the attack created a firestorm.
This was ******.
The killers got medals.
With the war on the thought was a dead German
is a good German.
I think this outrage prolonged the war.
It took years before the atrocities saw the light of day,
excepts India and Kenya, few knew Britain
could be party off mass ******.
The Albinos has been revelry to many carnages and
gotten away with it.
It is time for an apology to Dresden and her people.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
i live in england...
which isn't exactly
continental Europe...
sure... the Norse
can come up with
their howling volf
imitation...
    but i thought the
English convened
and called my ethnicity,
vermin?
  why do you think
i imitate
king vermin,
   the fox...
in its calls...
  surging into pseudo-laughter?
ever listen to a fox,
esp. male, at night?
came running,
the auxiliaries -
    soloist foxes,
before the packs of
wolves...
   sniffing, the earth for bones,
and roots...
   of course the idea
diffuses when
  attracting
        the attention of
media titans,
to allow for the "idea" to propagate...
north eastern America...
Salem...
  as its capital...
   i had a love, who introduced
me to an antithesis of Ensiferum...
In Extremo...
  but then?
   i found Heilung...
7+ years to encompass
a break-up...
  forgetting her ******
has become...
   i rather east raw mustard
after dinner...
than "repent"....
     howl all you want...
but ever stay up at night,
cherishing
   the "laughter" of foxes?!
   never heard it?
oh... you're missing out!
it's transcendental
of the vampire motif...
             a shamanic voice,
that imitates the hovering
rasp,
of a didgeridoo...
         hearing,
   what the fluttering of
the wings of a kingfisher looks like...
a fox...
       relaxing on my neighbor's
roof of a shed...
eyes enlarging the proportion
of both torso, and the tail...
      relaxing...
       better than
feeding sugar to macaque monkeys
on a balcony in a Kenyan resort
for albinos or porkies...
   better than listening
to a macaw parrot,
stranded on a roof,
tell a fireman attempting to save
it... to?
   *******!
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
somehow drunk on language: a jazz impromptu...
nothing is ever to be orchestrated
or read from a script...
    
               and drinking besides...
               a manifesto on the sly?
               i hardly think: or rather:
               i hardly want to...
               compose one...

but i am sure to find some freedom... it's not
that much... it will do: working from the confines
of a dickensian paragraph is all the rage:
of all - but not these days, to be exact...

crumbs from the table of "muse"...
   it's a low-hanging fruit...
   something of the sort of worth than can only
   be worth: merely passing the time...
    by the mortal "adventure" circuit of events...
   this is me: not being present when
   beer, or flour... or ketchup...
   or mayonnaise... or the method of frying
   using oil... or poaching an egg...
   or the litany of respective spices
   being used in a curry...
  something grand... the moderns and their:
darwinistic slyly sliding into every narrative:
ideologues of darwinism...
who are they?
the history of man...
a back and forth:
starting with / from today...
   all the way back to... primodial times...
hunters: we were...
gatherers: we were...
foragers: oh for ****'s sake: WE WOZ!

i'm tired of the monkey veil...
               at least under the iron curtain...
something of freedom trickled through
the sieve, the cracks...
      where to? given this silicon curtain:
freedom on... zee fekkin mond?
apparently very little "history" happened:
or has had to happen...

there's only now: the 20th century...
   and then... nibbles of the 19th century's zenith
of... thomas ddison and george westinghouse,
alexander bell...
       but prior to all that...
the 19th century inventors and pioneers...
the 20th century pop culture...
all those ignorant ***** prior to the grand: "US"...

when darwinism: which is an ideology...
goes beyond biology... and... like leftism...
like communism... spreads its tentackles
into all things unattached with it...
i can hardly see a consolidation argument:
an omnipresent "needle work thread-through"...
am i in denial or do i simply think that
darwinism has robbed history of time...
as a linear motivation for moving forward:
by a poppy seed's volume per year...
on one's knees: up to climb mt. megiddo?

i am pretty sure darwinism...
        doesn't have the capacity to dictate
a branch of history that stresses its presence
via etymology -
how... the word cool: is currently out
of vogue... and in decline...
               back to the reality of:
having a cold beer...
           which is cool... because a room temp.
beer is... choice:
bad-manners... crass... puke-juice...
and some others i'm tired to conjure...

  but this jumping from: primodial man:
to the current, modern man...
and leaving no traces for the middle-men...
a philip augustus of france: the capetian...
      
     pompeii: circa 70ad...
                 sometimes the gods would visit...
hermes trismegistus...
       because it was: so...
                   then again:
the darwinistic historogical reflections are
a bit like saying: we've been hoarding...
there's no brain without a fever to store all
the past claims of vanity...
but a complete whitewash...
a blank slate... to work with barely nothing...
and to dress it up to...
the language and fashionable attire...

    it's like jumping from the big bang:
a lot of banging happens in a vacuum...
              oh yeah... you can hear a needle drop
in a vacuum of space...
what a name: genesis: big bang...
big hole bang black: is the way forward...
let's breed us a middle-ground of
the copper / cinnamon royalty...
                     i start from the north...
you start from the south...
we're bound to create a new equation
for where the equator should be...
on the 23.5°N line...
that story: all out of africa...
                    who brought the albinos?!
but do you come across a copper cinnamon
people quickly?
   it's mongrel of... black words on white paper...
there's even a name for it... tropical:
and cancerous...
    because you were never to witness...
what happens...
when there's a first investment in mixed-race
coupling...
   come the second generation and the bleaching
is continued:
               there pops up a curiosity:
like afghani blue eyes...
              
perfectly matched-up insomniac journalism
and darwinistic historiology...
   oh: everything that came prior...
insignificant...
  but i am sure i wasn't there... when...
flour first came into "being" and when eggs
were first harvested for the mass production
of cakes... and when there came about
a domestication of a mountain goat...
or how the cow decided: two stomachs best...
and a... digestion process that...
well: it's pretty much an imitation
of that of a fly... which is why: let man conjure
up elves, orcs... and let the gods mind
conjuring up: elephants and... sloths...
and... the man who invested in trans-genderism:
consciously ingested a tapeworm embryo...
to feel: what a "foetus" would feel like...
what is the tapeworm... if not the placenta
without a mouth?
                      
    islam and hair... though...
               is hair all, that?
                   what about: the manic pixie haircut...
tomboyish... slanting almost shredded
in look...
                  what about:
a fly in a champagne flute...
    or... there's a hair in my soup!
       i know that some people react to hair...
in soups... with... a... 'get it away from me!
poltergeist! poltergeist!'
          hair... long hair... does it have
to be about hair?
   i don't seem to be lacking in this grace...
                               but a perfect skin...
   oh sure... said the bearded-lady...
or the french: au naturel propagators...
   but why is fair such a must: must... fancy?
was there this 6th century affair for bad
teeth as there might have been for...
greasy wigs?
            
                        now wouldn't wearing
a hat like a hebrew might wear a kippah...
notably in those 1950s movies...
    and prior... to have to be always attired
with some headgear...
                and... the trousers whereby...
they reached up... to the mid-torso...
     and would never be... worn like today...
under the bellybutton...
  
   hair... hair in my soup = there's a fly in my
champagne flute...
   i'd probably gag less at the fly...
     spawn of the disinfecting maggot brains
that would sooner feed on dead-flesh
than...

   maggot bullets for every zombie apocalypse...
a maggot bazooka...
maggots grown as g.m. crops...
fused with... piranha d.n.a. branches so that...
they could bite exponentially: quicker...
like jigsaws for jaws: or
                   super-slurper-vacuum openings...

this menacing: over-arching... shadow of time...
if there's no past worth to remember:
or its picked-and-mixed like penny sheets
or like extracts from the goodbook
for the apologists...
                                        but talk about...
the time it takes to boil a litre of water...
and the time it takes to... produce a bottle of wine...
jumping down from a tree:
huddling in a cave...
coming from the ***-side of Versailles...
then moving into... a communist concrete
chicken-shack...

                 and now:
journalistic-insomnia...
                                and... the forgotten fire
with exception to the candle:
               U.V. and poltergeists of neon...
always to be given... reiterations of reality...
while also... attempting to digest...
a thinning ice of fiction: narrations per se...
      
      i call for the federation of niqabs
and foreskins...
              at least a ******* is that sort veil:
that veils the least...
there are those ***** hairs
i call a beard...
and come: the story of the moon...
and there's artificial lightning:
i can actually compete with mel gibson's
"gibbon"...

            otherwise for me: the niqab of the soul...
or: why is he so: "ouch-tistic" rummaging
with his schizoid eyes:
averting the look of what's become:
the mini-skirt: perpetuated *****...
if only i had lived to have lived:
an aborted foetus...

    thank god for bulgarian prostitutes!
than god for bulgarian prostitutes!
a whole lot of them that just want
to ****!
the double-twist of: there's a ******
tux for every uncircumcised male: waiting...
liberal socialist democracy has:
zilch on the matter...

i'm still more bothered about how
darwinism made its plug-hole manoeuvre...
an apple a day: keeps the doctor away...
a poem a day: keeps the psychiatrist at bay...
for such advances in medicine and science:
that these branches still allow
sadists armed with pharmacological weapons:
calling the brain a... chemical soup...
i am not that much half-... Brian ist tod...
but i'm also hardly the
cucumber schumacher...
                 when skiing: just because:
and the snow forcaste is like what?
a burning tire exercise?!

                    if i was truly angry: i wouldn't be writing...
to invest in a boxing duvet wrapped up
in clingfilm... not my thing...
i like to see anger... evaporate at my fingertips:
rather than clenched into a fist
for a knuckle arithmetic...

how can i become: silly / angry about
english girls groomed and gang-***** by pakistani
men...
   remember: i'm the abortion that didn't
happen that somehow wrote this:
i wouldn't be touched: or ****** or...
                    all because: this one time...
at band-camp... there was a girlfriend and i
should have known better...
and for all i know: roulette and blackjack...
and if not mine...
then his... and that's 5 children squeezed
out from her ****: when i would have
advised for a caesarean section because:
a toddler's head would not be anything:
quiet close to... my ***** envy of...
a 12" **** of a roach...
and a kim kardashian ***...
which would be necessary...
                   to... wade through all that
gelatin bubbling and trembling!

my ideas concerning homosexual ***:
thank you, the kiss was great
is the gaybar...
but... i am confined to...
enjoy taking a ****...
esp. diarrhea consistency type:
i sometimes catch myself with an onomatopoeia
of a groan...
    something is always supposed
to come out... rather than in...

i'm still not angry... if i weren't an abortion...
then i'm expected to be...
eyes-darting autistic...
hardly able to read into
a physiognomy...
   i must be: unable to: interpret a smile...
i am drying up on finding new music...
so i must be outside the compensation
parameters of an "in-crowd"...

                i have to... most probably...
start working a genesis with a niqab...
or i have to make donning sunglasses
mandatory for men...
like... oh god: don't invite stiching
the eyes shut and the cenobite Butterbite...
what's a butterbite?
a butterbite mistakes oral *** performed
on a ******* for an oyster...
sooner: rather than later...
the **** becomes the oyster...
the oyster becomes a tulip...
the tulip becomes a slab of butter!

because: we're expert at this...
schumacher is still a ******* cucumber...
and it's not like, death:
this instant... a tweet...
or a telegraph...
it's a bureaucratic "backwards and forwards"...
watching paint dry...
or catching a snail on the nod...
an itching spider without a web:
a very abled... sportartenspinne-mann...
     spandex galore: clue?

hell... i was thinking about...
how more agile:
when darwinistic ideology would come
to ruffle the feathers and sieve...
and what became of existnetialism...
headaches and minor indigestion faults
from the 19th century: Denmark
would: or could become more apparent...
ruffle the feathers...
pluck them from a chicken...
poach it for a soup...
       perhaps roast another one...
skin the pig and cure and later
curate the skin that would become
a leather for a belt...
                
   darwinism and historiology...
heidegger might have summoned the term...
but he wasn't "battling" with english:
islander-thinking...
           "solipsism"... or for that grandiosity
of: the great h'america:
our best kept: interlude...
constantly revived: beside the confines
of Idaho...

          and the modern "question"
of islamic religiosity...
i call the same...
the mind is less obviously tinged
with... markers...
akin to... isoprene and atomic chlorine...
after chernobyll:
why was liquid iodine prescribed
to pregnant women?
markers: like dyes...
  to invigorate the "sedation"
of... an otherwise invisible reaction taking
root: or place...

islamic religiosity is...
very much akin to darwinistic historiology...
the study of history via monkey-dough
and brains and somehow also the ****:
the building block of aztecian flat-top
pyramids...
                islamic religiosity is...
the 17th century looking at 21st century...
darwinistic historiology is...
the 21st century...
looking at totem and the primodial man...
encompassing him in the present...
the 2nd through to the 18th century
are a bit of an amnesia...
better call it a lobotomy...

               there's knitting! there's picking!
there's the apologetics...
history taught from the perspective of darwinism:
is very much akin to history:
taught from the perspective of communism...
i'm sorry: one ape one world...
i do see the fullness... from the perspective
of a microscope... that becomes
the bottle-stump... once i'm finished with it!
having drank my fill!

to romance the vampire is to also
romance h.i.v.
                how does darwinism fare against
the backdrop of: orthodox: strict...
since there is no true darwinism in nature:
and nature: vetos... whatever are the opinions
of the ideologues:
the sieve... the harvest... and the discarded...

there's always an alternative:
etymological... in that...
prior to the written word...
there was the reasoining abounding in...
what came thirst:
the "d" of Δ... or the Δ: a triangle?
               can a sound akin to "d":
occupy... a sound... geometric tool for
exploring... O... omicron...
what came first? "o" and oh...
the phonetic encoding: O...
OΔ...
                      just a suppose...
                                  
   what letters: from greek... could have been
borrowed from the natural world?
O: moon and sun...
         Δ: the mountain...
                 β - a ***** and an ***...
          ζ and ξ - a serpent...
               ι: the fraction stick... and arithmetic
counter to a • or an apostrophe '''''''''''
                waves of omega and the mu(se)...
   prior to the key and the lock and
a door: φ (key inserted)...
              θ (key turned)...
            ψ (door opened)...
           i.e. Ug (Yγ): a tree...
                         applied to the key and door?
it's not a hammer... there's no nail...
                      eta (H): rugby goalposts...
    
etymology doesn't suffice...
      the words will become morphed...
the letters are a priori...
   as numbers are...
but... whereas numbers remain intact
within the confines of a priori:
letters take on a posteriori meanings...
notsably eta (H): the rugby goalposts...
or the "vector":  (φ, θ, ψ)...
rho implies: an amputee sysiphus...
but rho is a P... hence...
the lost thrill of a R put against
the wall: and shot to a trill!
a rattlesnake ramble! mein gott!
what loss: in english and tarantula
numbed! i walked down a road:
that almost became: woad;
sly little *******...
give me a universal language...
and i'm pretty sure that it will not
be one... with a skeleton of ancient
roman to master and craft with!
donkers... plump plums in "origin"...
a Baghdad...

since the full mechanisation of the key
and lock are not represented:
but rather: insinuated...
                        
                        but there is a door...
imagine, to boot...
that there's, also, somehow...
a necessity of a doormat!

- because in vestern europa: it's about time for:
"zee... pudding-reis-poodle-tops!"
much easier laughing at german
with some "vikings" in tow...

i just abhor how darwinism has become
the neu-ego of history: "abided" by...
like... this be the zenith and 100 years
from now... people will not laugh...
or... i much prefer: scold and frown at...
because i much prefer to be baptißed
using boiling...
         using water... that might allow
me to escape... the confines
of a couch: the comforts of a skin...
and all matter of leather: thus concerning...

i am happy to allow myself the following
sentence: the rats and the moon will always
tell the better "story"...
  liberal hard-ons that are hardly quantified
as matchsticks...

you're looking for communits in your current
"conundrum"...
looking for "them" leeching and lurking
from beneath the eisenvorhang?!
          ostenberlin?!
                       i had the impression...
that... your comforts... your dickens...
your semi-detached bogus heavens...
and that's what was required...
for you... to breed your own...
without having to...
outsource the idealists:
                     your... 'aggis neeps and tatties:
roots of "origins"...
you have your own sort of communists...
mostly t-shirt print enterprises...
and... whatever...
looking for communist from under
the iron curtain...
is about like scounting for both
rats and cockroaches...
and a honing idea of the hive...
because rats wouldn't eat roaches
and the two could, somehow...
fashion of symbiotic vogue affair...

you know what ****** me off...
the most... about not being english...
leverage of pompous audacity to state
the most: infantile opinion...
worded: i know:
you cough... i sneeze...
we'll reach an equilibrium, at some point:
to make references to:
and a past...

precedence: to "think" is to:
th(ought i)... and all that's counter-productive of
"i labyrinth" and: thought and i...
or... scalpel: nurse!
grammar! genius! ******* rollerskating chimpmucks...
and... h. p. lovecraftian odes to...
squids... in less than the already:
"murky" waters of... perfect the... widespread
genius of comedy...
via... ridicule... via... bulimia...
via... cooking a steak: well-done...
over-cooking pasta:
the diet of al dente...
                             burning a mushroom:
not being to: not being able to:
and that: to Baghdad... from Loon'don...
                  virtue signalling:
a clap is... 1/100 of a fraction of...
someone... being deaf and having to resolve
the matter: sign-language about to be translated
into... braille!

the islamic religiosity of "today" is about as
mcuh equivalent as the "today":
under darwinistic historiology...

looking for communists from under the once
former iron curtain divide?
good luck: i'm wishing it unto myself:
about to find Mongols in... Kiev!

came across some burden of a sourdough:
and it's like in england:
it's "theirs": never the agony of eating...
a bread... designated to be toasted...
when it just had to be... eaten... "raw"...

what's the fan-base for raw herrings...
within the confines of Nippon...
or these... grandeours of the:
only isles... my ideas to make
metaphors of the crucifix?
a ******'s riddle...

we're looking for communist: y'all!
i'm looking for Belze...
                  and: mādégehirn-verrotten
         und rätsel: ungezieferfreude...
zylinderanziehen: der großartig:
     schwule -            
der: scrumptious...
                                               fladenbrotmann!
bessermann: das englisch...
                   herr portillo... chuckles should
it come to:
   steam-trains and replicas...
and politics: was never really...
about harems and hard-ons...
                                       really?
ask a Baghdadi then: if you pleaz...
Lawrence!

chance of me being spoken to in russian...
and being: reciprocate...
are all yours: slim jim!
  no... seriously...
a ***** of a language that is...
english: i am... most astounded that...
there are some peoples of this world
that have not: yet... allowed themselves
to translate this:
bellybutton orientation of the world
via genus: greenwichus...
to be: unifying versed: et al.

        i must bees the retardedwoz... kin:
and oops some year later...
or: to hell with keeping up...
anything beside the appearing so...
i:  "for the love of the countrymen"...
of which i have none:
are 9 my commuter friends:
and with the romanians...
and the bulagrian ******...
the polish plumbers...
the english... could have their catwalk
of opinions!
who skinned the chickens
and who did what: my shadow lacked
or i slacked over with?

i want to forget because
i just don't want to unravel in...
i would work an honest's day... of worth...
if i could work for a: get together...
or none...
             it's so disorientating...
and... lacking in motivational bravado...
to have to find one man: working...
and the other: *******!

   talk about... having to resort to mind:
the manners to count jack'oh the ol' keeper...
because: abortion signification is
burning a foot in the sole
of my shoe...
and i'm about to make do with
walking a ******* mile...

               and there i was... conjuring
the fetish fancy:
all it would ever take...
was to pretend to... attire oneself /
i.e. make pretences of: pweeety pretty!
i like being governed by:
you have to be wrong...
for the mushroom and tapeworm
and the cuckoldry muppets to be: oinking:
and with a nodding:
the holy approval as: no other route...
other than them being "white".... Rrrrrrridle
no?
                     no -ight then!
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
the ninth gate,
or how, even a bibliophile
can have a little
adventure...

perhaps there's a world
out "there",
but there's also the Heideggerean
retraction  from the world,
into Tao...
         or at least, Tao,
with a bit more of a European
entanglement of narrative...
or past 4 summers
to count, exploring
        moth flight into dust
made into sediment
on yawning bookshelves...
as much of a world out "there"...
as there is life in th vicinity,
in a myopic worldview,
almost aquatic...
        via the H. retraction of
dasein... being by a plateau-esque
increment...
rather than the synonym
big bang and 20th century
exponential circus of populations...
epoch of consolidation,
and cultural exhaustion...
since art could not be industrialised
with a focus on originality,
standing face to face with
industrialised "art" of household
decorum... back to the cave it went
to craft a think-tank,
and a safe space...

which begs the question
as to why certain people allow themselves
the chance to exploit the haiku...
rubric rigid, however-many
syllables it takes...
prior to, some Ching Shin Po
drinking heavily during
the night (why would
you ever drink during the day?)
laughing at the moon,
astounded, mesmerised...
terse saying, sealed lips,
never a haiku being intrusive,
never the haiku made into
a jazz standard,
or a because a sonnet rhymes
like so...
                 20 years,
and still waiting for a haiku...
not this, industrialised:
'aving a blueprint,
ergo: mass replica pulverising
tumult...

           tickling-fingers,
using bookmarks rather than desecrating
books by folding pages into pytharogean
origami...
                reading best investigated
as private tele broadcasting channels...
ad intermissions...

       tonight all i have to offer is this...
a bibliophile's tender woven care...
  holding a book, 3 years older than
me... namely 34 / 35...
in pristine condition...
namely... and the pages are still white...
ironic... since the content
of the book is about ghosts...
take a printed 1957
and the pages turn to sepia...
unlike those barons
and stubborn sycophantic
       wine, "conneisours"...
   the pleb turned snob
is harder to find among book
fetishists...
             the oldest in my possession?
a 19th century print...
     amrican...
     in one psychoice instance
i gave the works of Emerson to
Oxfam...
not that i mind charity,
but that I mind Oxfam...
                  
a new breed narration,
if art, for art's sake...
digression being the new form of
narrative... because
i don't remember what i was going to...

ah!

   Duchy Polskie: Wydawnictwo
         PTTK "KRAJ" (Warszawa 1983)
person in question?
the illustrator,
janusz stanny...
and notably the method
of translating a flint stone
into graphic...
                 hell...
a little corner of the world
and nothing as mundane as...
a postcard from the usual:
wish you were here,
and wish i wasn't,
      sending you this ******* postcard
making me look
like an utter plonk...

and what of the commandments regarding
a neighbour...
big town no neighbours...
small town... promotion
into gossip... little talk...
big town no gossip,
suffocated little interests,
plotki... suffocated to the point
when too it's too late,
and the straitjacket comes out...

the forgetful faces
and the dizzying carousel of urban
living...
              if fame is to be worth 15 minutes...
friendships have a life-span
of a dumb mosquito sitting
on the arm of a lucid man...
            teasing this minion
of the antithesis of Belzeebub
before the needle...
   SMACK...
                         pancake.

        the digressive narrative...
or in better grammar without
a doubled -ive...
digression as the new form
of a narrative...
    as such:
      acute amnesia...
    regarding the muse...

               not for any other,
other than the love of the craft...
or how to escape
the Alcatraz... of sitting through
and English literature / language class...

oh ****... would you loom at that...
a rhyming couplet!
   that's as rare as Van Helsing
finding out that... beyond the romance
of the sickly and sweaty sweet Bar-fe-lona...
all vampires are like mushrooms...
kept in the dark and fed ****...
namely... all vampires are albinos.

on the odd occasion of finding a rhyme,
without even looking for one...
esp. not pulverising a reader with it...
every,  single, or, other, line!
Yenson Oct 2019
Give them minds, don't leave them bereft
aspirations murdered by inherent arrogance
cossetted indulgences in thoughtless frames
the tragedies of their lives celebrated in vacuous pits

You are nothing when resentments are your spurs
because in emptiness only envy and jealousy owns you
ignorance in deprived and depraved guises your domiciles
in such mires you thrive behind the closed doors of your minds

Your worth is the sum total of the negativism of you
confused minds spewing the fears and turmoils of feral legacies
as begging opportunities are snapped by browns and blacks
yous in supreme ailments and doltishness claims status fools
the dumb short changed albinos grandstanding your ***** for *****
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2022
nacht! mein kalt! (pips and cult of shrining *******)
                        (night... my calm!)
esp. watching Tan
beat Serena Venus
at Wimbledon... the former just played
better tennis...  to hell with the crowd...
Tan reinvented tennis...
i was a huge fan of playing
squash... i loved the warm-up periods
where you had to oosh...
yeah: oosh... usher in
the right sort of temp.
for the rubber ball...
          she was... Tan: spinning the ***** like a
Shane Ward...
    it was lovely to watch...
in the end: force x **** didn't pay
off for the Williams' end of an era
match...
   *******... just be a mum...
    i clearly imply: thank you...
but... come on...
      joking aside...
looking at her husband...
you might be left wondering...
for the egoism of massive Africa-American
boyos of the massive ******* persuasion types...
are... with the blonde ******...
while Serena Williams gets to mother
the ***** of a... soy-boy...
wow!
       you look at that...
you try to "reiterate": you can be suddenly
squashed in the diagnosis of: "schizophrenic"...
point being: THERE'S NO REALITY...
it's all make believe...
the higher you are up the food chain
the more rigour-stance you exfoliate...

i like the taste of ***** *****...
i love eating ***** *****...
i also like eating eggs...
     i love sniffing anuses...
i love eating eggs like they're abortions...
i also like *******...
******* genocides into the loo...
problem?!
  my body! my choice!
i do about 3 genocides in a day...
problem?!
      are we going to, have... a... problem?!

because how ever many times i wished
to be a father and have the mother to / for my children...
****... it... let's forget it...
Africa / Asia can keep up with Darwinism...
white people can **** popsicles
of yellow Zappa ice...

i'm not even white... i'm universally pink when
bruised...
morbid fake... copper-neck pristine when
sun-tanning...
          American ******* ******* and their
racial profiling bull-*******-****!
you come round England one more ******* time...
i swear i'll throw imaginative acid on your face
to turn you into albinos...

i hate your graffiti grammar!
say what? you heard me...
I... HATE... YOUR... GRAFFITI... GRAMMAR...
you sound *******... urban... sure:
but... RE-TAR-ED...
slow... you know what slow sounds like?
you sound slow...
and i hate the H'american accent...
no... no money in this ******* lovely world
will ever bring me to kneel before
the people of this sordid Empire...

i drink: i'm an uninhibited fire hazard of speech...
while some drink and lose focus:
i drink and gain some...
FREE-DOM! WILLS the WALLACE!
WALLS-AH!
you seriously can't do it any other
******* way...
people are best preserved when they
don't listen...
                         n'est c'est pas?!
      
who the **** needs to stress intelligence
when it comes to crowds?!
keep 'em dump... keep 'em shallow...
keep 'em: "hippy"... idiotically happy...
und der nacht werden tragen die Überreste...

das ist!
     auf wiedersehen!
                                 hallo neu-unglück!
mein neu du.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/                                                                 god...
       that girl in the black & white
                                       t-shirt
     is... exfoliating
                            within the confines
              of a natural "burden";
god, that chisel face,
    a new york type of
         woody allen's clarinet playing
type of... "reality"...

some neu-jazz?
    great!
   breed out any "concerns" i might
with regards to: albinos donning tattoos...

do i look like your father?

but that girl in the black & white?
she's onto something...
   given the fact that i'm sniffing out
her proportions and gesticulating:
she's either pregnant,
or should be lodged in the confines
of a straitjacket...

    couple of sniffs later...
is there any point of watching **** movies
these days?
if there's an assault on corporate media...
why not one on the **** industry?
start with, well, if you don't start
with Bronzino's cupid, titillating
the ****** of venus?
    and you can't ******* to that
"scenario"?
   my god, ***** up yer *** then!

old school means:
   such that is the naked flesh,
the emblem of the artistic ****...
the sculpture...
                      the... does this really
require a movie, or simply my...
    imagination?

**** these days has transcended my
original "intentions":
mainly the mirror effect,

   she jerks off, i *******...
she's exfoliating on camera with a foetus,
i'm there with an ego...

           she ends the argument,
i begin it...

         she's a teen trafficked onto
adult websites,
  i'm like: i get the giggling, so: no...
*******...

       i'm not even a sartre ******
at this point...
but my god,
  that chiseled face,
  and that natural glow of ultra-concerns,
as if she's carrying something
more than just a signature label
handbag, or really wanting to
"exfoliate" with the next big "thing"
equated to high-heels...

      this... this is ****...

                             look at her...
    she's scared, but already
  filled with brimming,
         encompassing a continuum!
     kangaroo mum'ah!
     wild eyed like a tom waits song
live circus...
                 she's ******* edgy,
bountiful, a filling of the eyes
like two tongues, one eye in the mouth,
and a parisian croissant:
       freshly baked...

seeing this pweety pweety...
i don't want to write,
i don't want to paint,
i don't want to sculpt...

         rather... feed her a las vegas
roulette of fancies of a "diet"...
sweet pickled cucumbers,
   no cucumbers...
                sun dried tomatoes...
   plum tomatoes...
                  and whatever is
       later translated onto the cards.

look at her...
                           the amazon
within the confines of about 5ft6...
              such perfecto chin and the extending
bone to allow a chew...
the almost disappearing eyebrows
with what germans call:
   the protruding bones of the skull -
with unnecessary hair to add an excess
of nomen.

so... ****...
                 and if i'm not mirroring her,
also *******,
  and if i'm not looking at
classical art, as she exfoliates pregnant
with a 3rd party source to
add to the compliments...
            well...
                       then there's just the plain
dumb acting, within the confines
of a hollywood...

   yawn...

                            or...

S1E10 Completion of a Great Opus
    (lindsay ellis)...

    does a woman have to be naked,
in order to get you *****?
    i know the excess of islam, of the niqab,
and the supposedly "******* eyes"...
but then...
               ah: as good as any needle
                                        to no camel.

did you spot the girl in the t-shirt
of a zebra lying down?
                            see the second heart?
the frog, the puddle, and the tadpole?

oh look!
    you can actually see *****...
  within the confines of the amphibians!
Yenson Sep 2019
Who is there to taunt and terrorize the faithless
who buys nada from the prophets of the barren paradise
where apparitions sell magical sights in haze and mirrors opaque
and forked tongues roasted in wombs of maligning albinos cold frosts

The blank minds resend entrails of bigoted shames
keepers of secret sins rigging sails to ferry malice fore thought
for in the light of the just the laden-ed pirates sees incoming storms
in sinners fermented heads the hurricane winds cry Mary's ill spawn  

Unrest for the uncontested domicile hicks and dolts
game-keeper turned washers to arrived nouveau riche in browns
wounded by hate and bitter a bitter potion now ingested by left-overs
our modern terrorists in sackcloth and shame seeks neon power in saps' dusts
Yenson Aug 2021
How it deranges the stalwarts albinos
from hither and thither wrestling pale apoplexies
on the loose sails the Standard bearer
never one held as cargo for the auctioneers block
see but a singular scholar of distinction
unfolded not in cotton or cane bushes in sweated bow
rather resplendent sublime self ownership
disdainful of ****** wanton lures in porcelain thighs
not in ***** dens nor in hands with knaves
unknown at ale houses chasing demons in fire water
neither seen at toss and turn for a quick buck
a paragon worthy from the high table of the landed
in inherent grace and noble favour
thus to all hicks and serfs the anomaly of our woes
and raging curse of our discontents
in envy they toil as they languish perdition and strife
a moor with more than the wretches
come bear arms heathens and conquer this nightmare
we are the harlequins of animal farm
hahaha  hahaha  hahaha
satire, mass, frustrations, first world problems, small minds, ignorance
Suspicious activities: eating eggs in a cave; storing toothpaste in your nose; washing ****** in the bird bath; telling albinos to “lighten up”; whistling in a *******; flossing your teeth in a funeral home; selling pumpkins during Easter; using your big toe to hitch-hike.
Yenson Feb 2022
short changed albinos
play mind games in the paleness
of short sighted transparencies

its is all crystal clear
with porcelains and ivory blunts
yet dense in snow blindness

white washing in slurry
off colour in faded blandness
milky opaque in tasteless rancid murkiness

the clotted games
of alabaster in chalky visions
as saps drip from slanted cut bone heads

read the wispy clouds
for blue sky thinking in vapid fluffs
cuckoos eat red berries to moult into cardinals
Yenson Sep 2021
Its very difficult not to laugh
at people who look like peeled albinos
with yeti downs
I mean, you just want to laugh out loud
Is it the Scientologist Religion that believes
some space aliens come to earth
and some of them settled here
yep, I can well see this a possibility
I mean its a bit of a disconcerting look
except for Lyn who had soul pouring out
my, shiver me timbers
thank heavens for summer
and sunshine
Satire about covid....it hates hot weather and likes people who don't bathe daily. No excuse about sensitive skin, have a daily bath and in the morning, not evening.
Yenson Apr 2022
Albinos in the market square
hawking white-washed dirges to each others

stirred in muddled pox puree
bedevilled as their blanched privilege suffers

cause in reality sound and sure
real deal shows they nowt but finks from gutters

oh they wail and bawl in seizure
in trance the weak cowardly banshees discovers

they are drunk nits without tenure
in body spirit or soul they are husks without colours

so come out from caves and pasture
the ruddy sheep are you baa baa baaing in your pretend culture
we can see your pain for sure
Norbert Tasev May 2021
Snorels trapped in a serpent's stake demonstrate and swear by a large vest; fewer and fewer than those who still have personal rights to light garbage cans and get into public Bachan ****** with *******-virgins is illegal! Every beautiful word, artificial beauty, sounds jerky between compressed gorilla lips! My flesh splits in two and my bald hair sparks fire and sparks on the insults of romance!
 
All my slips are deliberately running out, and I have to cry every minute of my martyrdom until my tongue gains again, judgmental prophecy! In fertile rebellions, it is no longer possible to know exactly which side you are standing on! - Even among enthusiastic cloakers, the lousy slat can vibrate from amateur caresses! "Between the rows between the railings, wild beasts can go to their troughs!" Honest handshakes also turn into pathetic question marks!
 
And everyone has become so suspicious that more and more people are starting to portray themselves from the nicely ringing genre places of their careers! Who already suffers from a single disease, an old girl?! And do small people strengthen the camp of albinos or enthusiastic dwarves? Muscle-core, self-kneading among Hercules and Atalanta, how can the compulsion to comply with exaggeration remain healthy?! - Everything among the chemically abracadabra of shameless null-calories, paleo-diets is already screaming and anxiety; a calvary of deliberately wounded souls turned back into deep layers!
 
They can't feel good in their skin because they flashed a **** bikini figure, and an unpleasant cellulite was also sacrificed - those who know the nimbus of perfection as manic obsessives deliberately suffer a paralyzing spell.

— The End —